Wake Up, You're Here
by urbankazoos
Summary: Ashley shed her social outcast skin years ago and never looked back. But when she responds to an ad to share an apartment with a "stranger," will the high school version of herself and her heartbreaking crush on Spencer Carlin haunt her in the present?
1. Hunting

Chapter 1: "Hunting"

_**Two-bedroom, 1 bath in Great Location!**_

_Female in late-twenties seeks nice, funny, sane female roommate. Great space, lots of windows. Only one bathroom (sorry!) Room is large with decent-sized closet and fresh coat of blue paint. I'm showing the room this weekend. Call to set up a time to swing by and check it out!_

_Rent=$650/month. $1000 security deposit. Approx. $60/month utilities._

I've always hated the sound of wind chimes. And in my irritated state, I wanted to take a blowdart to the face of Kat's psychotic, elderly neighbor for hanging them on the overhead of her deck. She has at least seven or eight different types out there. We're talking the wooden ones that make you feel like you're out safari-ing in Africa somewhere instead of watching "The Bad Girls Club" on YouTube, the ones that are large enough for small children to use them for rather boring tunnel slides, the small ones that sound like several hundred hummingbirds got caught in the rinse cycle, and some that were relatively standard but annoyed the living shit out of me on cheery principle alone.

I sighed, running my hands through my hair and toying with the idea of taking an exercise break. It was the only thing that calmed me after a chime-induced rage. All I wanted to do was like, forty-five minutes or so of strength training, an hour of yoga, a quick run around the block, and maybe a little kickboxing if my trainer was back from Disneyland. Nothing too taxing.

But I couldn't justify it in the hailstorm of adult responsibilities that I found myself ducking from these days. And the more I ducked, the larger the hail became, as though even metaphorical nature had decided to mock my efforts.

But, finally. Maybe…

I had been searching for at least an hour. And before the hour, I had been searching for two weeks. And before the two weeks, I had been sleeping on Kat's Beddinge Murbo and waking up every morning to cat paws in my mouth and her automatic coffee maker pursuing its purpose with loud grunting and a slow, monotonous drip a mere few feet away from my head.

Before the paws and the drip, I was sharing an apartment in the city with a culinary student named "Jamie." She was tall and had a once-endearing nervous laugh that liked to show up right after she would finish asking me a supposedly personal question. Also, she sang Radiohead in the shower when she thought I wasn't home, and spoke three languages fluently. Two conversationally.

A month before the search, Jamie decided that she was completely in love with me and used her advantage—she was the only one on the lease, you see—to persuade me to be in love with her as well. In case you're tragically unaware, love is this sort of _forced_ thing that's most effectively nurtured through the intensely romantic pressure of choosing between homelessness and sharing a bed with a woman who used blackmail and California landlord/tenant law as a means to lure you there against your own free will and sound mind. Apparently.

Needless to say, I chose the homelessness. Coercion has never made me feel particularly warm, nor a pleasant brand of fuzzy. So all of my personal belongings now lie on the bottom of a storage closet in my best friend's basement-level apartment in Berkeley and I lie on a couch with the company of her outrageously manic and dangerously obese cat named Ottoman perusing Craigslist for my next potential living situation and perhaps, a missed connection or a free bookcase.

"Stop sighing," Kat says, eyeing me over the top of the latest "Real Simple" magazine. She's balancing an IZZE bottle on one knee and a canister of Blue Diamond salted almonds on the other, which altogether makes her look like some sort of urban circus juggler or a human advertisement for Target.

"I can't help it. This apartment hunting shit is driving me insane. As in, if I don't find a place to live in the next five and a half seconds, I'm admitting defeat and proposing to Jamie."

She narrows her eyes at me and shakes her head, slamming "Real Simple" down so hard that you'd think she hated scrapbooking and summer picnic recipes. "Ashley, you've been at this for what? A few weeks? Do you realize how long it takes even relatively normal people to find a place to live in the Bay Area?"

"Nope."

"Months and months and months."

"Probably not."

"Okay, fine," she says, taking a long swig from the IZZE bottle, "but it can take a really long time, so chill the fuck out. The only reason you even care is because it's starting to affect your sex life."

"Dude, it _so_ is. Oh my God."

"You and your over-compensation, I swear…"

"I was a late bloomer—as you know—and I'm simply making up for lost time. Just catching up with everyone else in the world. That's all."

"Spare me. I've heard all of your validations before. Just admit that you're a whore."

"What's the old adage again? Something like, 'do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life?'"

"I don't know if that technically counts as an 'adage,' but…"

"I love that _that's_ the part that bothers you."

She laughs and shakes her head again, "Actually, none of it bothers me. I'm totally supportive of your decision to sleep with every vagina in the United States of America as long as none of the diseases you contract are of the airborne variety. In that case, you and I would have to be those friends that only text or something. Other than that, keep on truckin', Ash. Be the best little whore you can be."

"You're the best."

"You know it. So, there's nothing going on over there at all?" she asks, gesturing towards my laptop as she pops a few almonds.

"There's one that I think I'm going to call about. But it's been on here since this morning and it's a really good price in a pretty sweet neighborhood, so…"

"You think they probably got a million calls on it already, huh?"

"Exactly."

"Well, no harm in trying."

"Dude, I hate that phrase. There's almost _always_ harm in trying. There are like, fifty different kinds of harm that can come from trying. You've got disappointment, rejection, insecurity…"

"Call the number or I'm doing it for you."

I look around the room for my phone, finally locating it on the edge of the kitchen counter and I stand up to retrieve it. Ottoman weaves himself in and out of my legs and I attempt to walk and I nearly plunge to my untimely demise fifty or sixty times each way. Kat just smiles, staring at her massive, murderous companion with unwavering adoration. It's a love I'll most likely never know.

I dial the number and wait as Kat and Ottoman stare at me with wide eyes. It rings only twice before there's an answer—which tells me that she doesn't date enough to know the rules of telephonic communication—and when I hear the voice, my eyes narrow.

"Hello?"

"Hey, I just saw the post on Craigslist."

"Ah, right. Yeah, okay. Hold on," she says, and I hear papers being shuffled around before she returns sounding quite out of sorts, "sorry about that. Okay, now…hi."

"Uh…yeah, hey. I was wondering if maybe I could come by and check out the apartment. Is this a bad time?"

"To come by?"

"No, to call."

"Oh, no. I'm working from home today, which means I'm kind of everywhere and everyone's calling me asking me for shit I can't find or don't know about and I clearly don't understand how I'm supposed to delegate all of this properly because there's no way I'm responsible for…yeah, okay. I'm sorry. When do you want to come by?"

"Oh, well your post said something about the weekend."

"I just said that because that's what people say when they post those things. I don't know. When's good for you?"

"Well…"

"What are you doing right now?"

"Right now?"

"Uh-huh. As in…you know, right _now_."

"Right now I'm watching my roommate eat almonds."

"Can't miss that, I guess."

I laugh, shaking my head, "Right. I'm free, actually."

"Well, just come by now. I mean, you might as well get the true picture of what living with me is like."

"Is it valid intuition that I'm frightened?"

When she laughs, it triggers a memory of something from high school and I can't even breathe from the sudden wave of nostalgia, "I like you already. The address is on the thing, right?"

I recover long enough to give a quick, "Yeah."

"Then I'll see you soon. Call me if you get lost or anything," she answers before the line goes dead.

I stare at my phone, completely aware that Kat's eyes are still on me, waiting for an explanation. But all I can think about are the years of wanting and pining and stalking her down long high school hallways, waiting for my moment to say, "look at me, please."

"Fuck you, bitch. What the fuck? Talk!" Kat yells, taking its name literally and launching a throw pillow at my face, "and we're not roommates, by the way. You're crashing indefinitely."

"Hey, do you remember that girl I had a crush on all through high school?" I ask, suddenly thankful that I had kept Kat around after all these years despite the constant profanity, the dismal outlook on life in general, and the surprisingly accurate aim.

"You had a crush on everything in high school. Like, mops…chalkboards…fire alarms…"

"Shut up. I'm serious. Do you remember Spencer?"

"Why didn't you just say her name to begin with, dude? Of course I remember Spencer Carlin. Everybody loved her."

"Right, except no one loved her as much as I did."

"No, true. You were all weird about it, huh? Like, you'd get all defensive if someone didn't agree with you that she was the second coming or whatever. Like you had birthed her out of your own vag or something."

"That's an awful way to put it, but yeah," I say, reaching for my shoes, "that feels like forever ago and yesterday at the same time."

"But, wait…something happened with her, right? There's some kind of weird tragedy."

"Yeah."

"And so she was out of school for a long time, right? Am I making this shit up?"

"No, no. You're right. There was a car wreck. Her family was coming back from a football game and they collided with this guy and for whatever reason the car exploded. Like, it just went up in flames. It was awful. And then Spencer's grandparents moved in so she could finish out the school year."

"See? That's why I hate everything. Nice chicks like Spencer Carlin get completely fucked over by the universe while crazy bitches like Jamie end up rich with their tits perfectly intact."

"What?"

"Sorry. I'm just bitter because I'm broke and I need a better bra."

I shake my head, standing up so I can find my car keys, "Yeah, well…"

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to see the place."

"Wait, why did you ask me if I remembered Spencer?"

"I don't know. It's weird but this girl sounds just like her."

"_This_ girl? Apartment girl?"

"Yeah."

"But we moved so far away. How could that be?"

"We moved from L.A. to Berkeley."

"Whatever. Do you think it's her? And why in God's name would you still recognize her voice?"

"Are you serious? This is me you're talking to. This is the girl who found Spencer Carlin's senior yearbook on a table in the library and spent two hours writing all of her stupid feelings in it and then ate herself into a mashed potato-induced coma when nothing ever came of it."

"What was she supposed to do, Ash? Track you down—even though you've never even had a full conversation—and admit that she's been harboring feelings for you too? I mean, come on. Not only that, you weren't exactly at your most confident back in the day."

She was right. In high school I was 75 pounds heavier, only wore sweatshirts with kittens on them, thought multi-colored rubber bands made my braces cooler, and played the piccolo. The combination obviously proved socially lethal. I hung out with a small girl whose skin was paler than your whitest, newest Crayola crayon and whose hair was slightly blacker than…well, everything she owned. Her name was Kat, and on the school's social totem pole, she made me look like a varsity fucking cheerleader. So of course we were instant friends.

But it wasn't enough for me. I had dreams of better. I had dreams of one day losing my virginity to someone who didn't only exist online. So I took action.

After I spent two years living in the gym and on a diet so absurd it was as though I was gearing up to be featured on MTV's "True Life: I Hate Happiness," everything changed. The braces came off, the kitten sweatshirts were donated to the local thrift store's reject pile, and the piccolo…well, it's been hard to part with it. But it didn't matter because suddenly, I was hot. Hot girls can play any instrument they want because they're hot! And everyone who was willing to do away with shame and dignity and romance let me drive them back to whatever apartment I was living in at the time and work out twenty-two years of virginity on them.

"Are you even listening?"

I look up to find Kat frowning at me, and then I'm right back in the present with Ottoman wrapped around my ankles.

"Of course."

"I _said_, are you nervous?"

"Why would I be nervous?"

"What if it's her? I mean, you're Ashley Davies 2.0 now. Doesn't that change _everything_?"

She was right. This was the climax of the first part of my life—seeing my most epic, ridiculous crush realized because finally I was the one everyone wanted. Is there a difference between being the one that everyone loves and the one that everyone wants? Does it even matter?

"I have to go," I say with new conviction, tripping over Ottoman on the way to the door, "I'll call you if I end up staying the night."

"You're so fucking full of yourself. If I did fucking power yoga, I could fuck everything that moves too. I simply prefer to get my daily exercise by tossing and turning in my sleep."

"You're very strange."

"Just because it's different doesn't make it less than, okay? And for your sake, I hope this really is Spencer."

"She had the most incredible blue eyes, a smile that could silence a crying infant, and the body of every teen movie fantasy neighbor ever, and you know what? After all this time, it's the voice that still haunts me. She has this _voice_, Kat."

"The sad part is, you don't even realize the Pandora's Box you're about to open up, here. She's going to unravel this new version of you so fast it's not even going to be funny. I mean, I don't find many things funny to begin with, but…"

"You're wrong. I'm not the same girl I was nine years ago."

"Same girl. More fun-size and with straighter teeth, yeah. But trust me, Ashley, you're the same girl."

I tried not to let the door slam behind me as I hurried to conquer old windmills with better armor.

**I will no longer be posting here. Instead, I have set up a livejournal account for this story and any others in the future so that I can have better interaction with everyone. Find and friend me there at urbankazoos(dot)livejournal(dot)com. Thanks, and see you there!**


	2. Hearsay

**THIS IS THE AUTHOR'S NOTE I LEFT ON THE LIVEJOURNAL ACCOUNT:**

**So, first of all, I'm honored that anyone even cares that this is going to be my last Spashley story. I've been doing this for quite a while now and the fact that people still read both shocks and amazes me. But ultimately, I'm extraordinarily grateful-especially now that the show is finished and just when momentum shouldn't even exist for these two and the stories people make up about them, you guys are right here reading. Honored, honored, honored, and ecstatic. So, thank you with every fiber of my standard-size being.**

**Now, this story more so than any other I've written before (and perhaps, more than any SON story, period,) is going to be written in the set-up of a show. So it'll have three parts-or "seasons"-just like the original show. Cliffhangers, unanswered questions, and mayhem galore-just like any show's season finale. I'll write one part, take a very short break (no more than a couple of weeks) and come back with the next part until we're done.**

**Yes, there will be several original characters because it's going to help with the pace of my story to have more interactions and settings. And yes, maybe one or two characters that people absolutely abhored on South will be making appearances in this story. Is it okay to hate them still? Sure, but hopefully you hate them based on something they do in _this_ story and not something from the show. Not that you have to hate them at all...your choice.**

**Of course it goes without saying that I love hearing what you have to say about the story. You know that. But this time I feel it's more important than ever because a) we're in new digs, b) the "show-like" pacing of the story will provide for a lot of discussion opportunities and I think it'll be really cool to have an open dialogue. That's why I moved to LJ in the first place, after all. Speaking of which, I know a lot of people want me to continue posting at . If it's such an important demand, I'll do it. However, I really do encourage people to try this place out for size because I'd love to have all of this happen in one place as opposed to bouncing back and forth. The effort is just..._immense_ :) But sure, yeah. I'll continue posting there if it's easier for some people.**

**Other than that, if there's anything else you'd like to know about how everything is going to go here, throw it in the comments and I'll be happy to respond.**

* * *

Okay, so here's the second installment of "Wake Up, You're Here." It looks like with my schedule as it is right now, I'll be able to update every four or five days. If anything changes with that, I'll definitely let you know. But for right now, at least, expect a little bit less than a week between updates, okay? Cool. Enjoy!

Chapter 2: "Hearsay"

I gave the apartment a quick straightening, discarding pointless mail and washing out old coffee cups and wine glasses (from yesterday or last week or last month, who knows?) that seemed to collect on end tables more and more all the time—especially since I took my job as a supervisor at a community center that promised false solutions for desperate people. I spend all day getting bus passes or motel vouchers for homeless families and counseling pregnant girls that look ripe out of infancy themselves. Needless to say, the last thing I want to do after a long day is walk the ten feet to the dishwasher and actually give myself one less thing to worry about. The combination of failure at work and failure at home made me feel guilty. I wasn't prioritizing and it showed everywhere. In everything.

The orange lamp shades and the almost absurd assortment of plants were dulled by a light film of dust. There was candle wax stuck to the coffee table, drooping down from the actual candle like volcanic lava on pause. I stared at it for a long time before remembering that soon, someone would be in this mess. Looking around, surveying the nightmare. Choosing whether or not I was…

There was a breeze that blew through the window, sending a shiver through me so jarring that I had to close my eyes at the sensation. And for a second, I could feel my heart respond to the idea of accepting things as they are. It's _only_ candle wax. _Just _dust. Everything was just dust.

But when the doorbell sounded, the feeling of calm dissolved and I looked around once more just to punish myself further.

"Alright," I say aloud, giving myself an encouraging nod in the cracked antique mirror that hung over the fireplace. I hadn't even realized that I was frowning, and I relax my face into a more pleasant version of itself before heading off to welcome her. The wooden door seems heavier than usual—probably in anticipation—and my eyes adjust slowly to the darkness of the hallway. But when they do…when they see her and send an urgent message to the rest of my parts, I realize that nods of encouragement aren't going to be nearly enough, here. Not at all.

"You're here," I say, and my voice reads "caught off guard" with very little room for interpretation.

"I'm here," she agrees, smiling like an old friend. Then she shakes her head like she can't even believe it herself, "Yeah…"

Before I stand aside to let her in, I allow myself a moment to process that I've accidentally invited someone fantastically beautiful into the place where I eat, sleep, and floss. I'm wearing sweatpants from my long-forgotten freshman year of college and my hair looks like I had combed it with an electric mixer.

This was very, very bad.

"I'm sorry. Come in."

She laughs a bit, stepping inside without much hesitation. But the laugh was almost of the nervous variety and I wonder if our phone call has scared her or if there might be something about my actual presence that's alarming her. She doesn't exactly look like the type who would ever have to be nervous.

"Wow, okay," she says with a nod, her eyes jetting over everything and her hands resting on her waist when she's satisfied with what her eyes have accomplished, "so you're some kind of millionaire, right?"

"What?"

"This place…what you're asking for from a roommate in rent…it doesn't really seem to add up. I mean, places like this are ridiculous out here. You can't even…"

"Oh, well I got in at the right time. But I also happened to inherit a bit of money a couple years ago, so that helped."

"Right."

We stand in silence for a few seconds, the ticking of my wall clock making it seem more dramatic than the moment actually deserves. I can feel her eyes on me, though. And something about it seems almost familiar even if that's impossible.

"So, the room?" she asks, breaking the silence.

"Yeah, come on."

I lead her down the hall, straightening frames as we go—which she laughs at—and when she sees the room, I hear her sigh.

"Jeez, Spencer. You weren't kidding about the windows, huh?"

She walks over to the largest of the three, and it occurs to me that…

"How'd you know my name?"

She tilts her head slightly, eyes widening, "Oh, um…you said it on the phone, didn't you?"

"Really? I've been trying to remind myself not to do that."

"Why?"

"Well, this makes no sense, but it just feels safer to me not to tell people my name if I'm meeting them from the internet."

"But you invited me over to the place where you live after like, five whole seconds of a phone call."

"Like I said, it doesn't make sense."

"At least you know it," she says, quickly. But then she bites her bottom lip as though maybe I could be offended.

"So what do you think? I mean, you've got to see the bathroom and I have a few questions for you. Also, there are a couple people that emailed me about coming by this weekend. But how does everything look? Do you like it?"

"It's a gorgeous apartment. I love the windows, I love the fireplace. Blue paint's nice," she says, a charming smile gracing her lips, "if you're willing to overlook the fact that I'm a serial killer, I want in."

"Oh, no. That's actually really cool because I have a preference of living with serial killers. They tend to be quieter than most roommates."

"Absolutely."

"Cleaner, too. And it would be nice to have someone that could help me keep the place clean."

"I keep rubber gloves on my person at all times."

"That's so refreshing."

"Isn't it, though? We also know the best little hidden spots all over the city. Places most people don't even know exist."

"How fun!"

She lets out a laugh and so do I. The banter already feels natural, and I can picture myself staring at her from over my Froot Loops—a challenge—as she smiles and accidentally agrees to laugh as well before settling into the morning paper all over again. I push the thought away. Entertaining thoughts that seem so obviously premature frighten me for myself.

"Maybe you want to my name?" she says, and for a second the nervousness seems to return.

"That would probably be in my best interest, yes."

"It's Ashley…Davies."

No…

_No_.

"Oh, shit. Are you serious?"

I panic, recognizing the name immediately. I can't even believe that she's standing here in this room with the fresh blue paint like a normal human being. It was like a Bigfoot spotting at Panda Express.

"You recognize me? Most people don't…"

"I recognize the name. Not you so much. You look different than I would have expected, though. Really different."

She sighs and casts her eyes downward, "Yeah."

"Nice to meet you, Davies," I say, extending my hand and waiting for her to grasp it, "you've slept with everyone I know."

She looks puzzled, then (for whatever reason) relieved, "Don't be ridiculous. Seventy or eighty percent, tops."

She grabs my hand and shakes it just once before returning hers to the pocket of her jeans.

"So I would almost certainly have to worry about bearing witness to your infamous conquests, I suppose."

"To be quite honest with you—"

"Yeah, that's another preference. I like honesty."

She pauses for a moment and finally shrugs, "Makes sense. So to be honest with you, I don't like bringing girls home. If I can help it, I'll end up at their place so I don't have to worry about trying to get anyone to leave, right? Because I really hate when girls don't know when it's time to make their grand exit. It's like, really? You just met me tonight, we hooked up, and now you're expecting what? _Breakfast_?_Conversation_? Yeah, no. Not happening. Have you ever seen a door before? Good, here's one. Get out. You know what I mean?"

"I guess what I meant to say was, I would almost certainly have to worry about bearing witness to a former conquest of yours leaving dead animals in the mailbox or trying to run over you with her car?"

"Oh, well that's what you should've said in the first place. Yeah, of course. There's obviously lots of that."

"Ah, good. Just what I'm in need of these says—drama."

She shakes her head almost desperately. Frantically, really. "No, but seriously, I'm a good roommate because I'm quite fond of compromising when necessary. I swear there wouldn't be a different girl here every night. I'll somehow keep it down to…let's say, two a week? And you never have to wake up to some Cal student walking around in your bathrobe or whatever because they don't get to stay over ever."

"Let's go take a look at the bathroom," I say, wondering why I was suddenly so open to the idea of giving her a chance. But then again, there was something about her that seemed to put me at ease and I liked the way she seemed to care so deeply about my reaction to the things she'd say. Like I already mattered. As if my opinion or approval meant something to her.

She followed me back down the hall, past the front door. The kitchen had a counter that overlooked the living room, and I had always fantasized about cooking a dinner that I presently lacked the skills to make happen realistically and looking up to stare at some unnamed stranger as she sits reading in my favorite chair from my childhood home. I picture it as Ashley for a second, but shake the image away almost immediately because the stranger is meant to be more than a roommate. More than what Ashley could be.

"Okay, and here's the bathroom," I say, swinging the door open, "just the one, but it's pretty large."

"I like it. It's perfect."

I laugh, because it's far from perfect, but, "If you insist."

"It is. So, can I ask you a question then?"

"Maybe."

"How many people do you have over per week?"

"You mean, like to…"

"Uh-huh," she says, cutting me off. Her eyes narrow a little bit, and she crosses her arms as she awaits my response, "You don't have to answer that if you don't want to."

"No, it's only fair. And honestly—"

"Yeah, I prefer honesty."

"_Clever_," I say, smiling a little, "I don't date a lot."

"Why not? You're gorgeous."

I must look surprised because she stands up a bit straighter and shakes her head again, "I'm not trying to come onto to you or anything. I just mean that you're a very attractive person, so it seems like it would be quite easy for you—that's all. I wouldn't…I wouldn't go there with you. We would be roommates and…"

"No, I know. It's fine. It's just that, I don't really _do_ the whole dating scene. It scares me."

"What do you mean?"

"I have a really taxing job right now, and the idea of coming home from it and then going to some bar so I can be disappointed by _one_ more thing…yeah, not so much. I like dates. I like romance. But I think things like that take time and I don't have the time right now to go out searching for it."

"You like stability?"

"I _need_ it."

"I understand."

For some reason, she seems to mean it because her eyes leave my face and find the kitchen without a second of lingering confusion or a moment of further , silent questioning.

"Oh, that's the kitchen," I say, almost forgetting why she's here in the first place.

"The stove gave it away. Refrigerator didn't do too much to hide it either."

"Well, I have a stove _and_ a fridge in my bedroom, so don't go around making assumptions, Davies."

"Seriously?"

I look at her. Smirking, undoubtedly.

"Alright, I get it. More sarcasm. I should be used to that by now," she says, reaching in her back pocket to retrieve a vibrating iPhone, "ah, okay. Well, I guess I should be going."

"Right, of course."

"Thanks for showing me the place. You know I'm serious when I say I'm completely open to any kind of compromise you need. I've never been late with my half of the rent, I'm totally into cleanliness…"

"Well just stop right there, because I think you can tell that I'm not exactly a clean freak."

"What are you talking about? You need a duster—which I have. Other than that, this place is two inches away from immaculate. We'll be fine."

_We'll. _Already she and I were at "we'll." And I understand that this is what all the girls who like girls in the Bay Area like about her. She slips into your plans without you really having to do any thinking at all. No guilt, no self-analysis. Just…there she is making you feel like less of a mess.

"I'll send you an email and you can send me back what I need. Just the basics, you know? A couple references, proof of employment. Things like that."

"Consider it sent."

"Okay, so…"

I'm at a loss as to what happens now. But then here she is again, repairing the need to think. She touches my shoulder very briefly—but with a definite firmness—and heads toward the door, "I'll see you soon."

"Sure, see you soon," I respond quietly. But I realize that I've already let her know she's going to be living down the hall and I wonder when exactly that decision was made for me.

* * *

The restaurant is loud. There are drunken conversations and clinking dishes and people walking back and forth, and yet, all I can see is her face staring back at me in utter disbelief. Not that I blame her. It's all a bit sudden.

"I'm sorry, come again?" she says, leaning forward as if to hear me more clearly.

I spot our waiter and quickly try my luck at telekinesis in order to move him over here and provide myself a second to think as he asks us—almost sincerely— if everything is as we want it.

It isn't.

"Come on, Jonica."

"No, don't '_come on, Jonica'_ me, Spencer!"

"I don't understand what the big deal is."

"This is Ashley fucking Davies we're talking about. She's made half of your friends cry, remember? She's probably out collecting a _series_ of women to fuck on _your_ couch and you're cool with that? This is crazy…and _stupid_."

"You know what?" I say, taking a much needed gulp of water and crushing the ice between my teeth, "she's actually really nice."

"Of course she's really nice!" Jonica practically yells, signaling the attention of the tables next to us.

"Calm down, okay? I can handle myself."

"You shouldn't have to. That's the point I'm trying to make. This is your apartment and you get to choose who lives there with you, right? So if you have that choice, why would you use it to move Ashley Davies in? That's what I'm not understanding. Why would you invite that sort of shit into the space where you live?"

"It's not my job to judge her. All I want is someone dependable, relatively clean, and pleasant to be around. I don't need to know how she tucks her sheets or who's underneath them. I've got other stuff to worry about."

"I don't think you get it."

"Clearly," I say, finally making eye contact with the waiter. He smiles and heads our way, and it feels good just to have someone _not_ concerned with who I live with enter my vision.

"How's everything?" he asks, looking at my full plate.

"It's good, but I think I'm going to need a to-go box."

"No problem. You too?"

Jonica shakes her head, glaring at me with a vicious half-smile. Sometimes she really is hard to be around. But then I'm always reminded that she's like family now. Always caring one way or another what happens to me. Always concerned about my sanity. I'm in no place to discard family.

She resumes her lecture the second he turns his back, "There's no way that living with her won't add stress to your life. She doesn't care about people's feelings. So yeah, right now she's charming and agreeable, but she can't keep that up. People like her never can. And soon, you're going to regret it. But whatever, this is your mistake. I'll just stand by and watch you make it, I guess."

"Look, she'll be on a month-to-month lease for at least the first three months or so. So if anything doesn't go as planned, I can give her thirty-days notice and she's out."

"Uh-huh."

"That doesn't make you feel better about this _at all_, Jon?"

"No, it does. It's just that…you know how much I care about you. I just want you to make things easy on yourself, that's all."

"I know. But we got along well and she's already emailed me with everything I asked for, which makes me think that she'll be _at least_ be responsible about that kind of shit. That's good. That's what I want right now."

"Then let's drop it."

"Let's."

"So now can we talk about this date I'm working on for you?"

I nod, but my mind is elsewhere. Jonica's words have settled in despite my best efforts, and I can't help but wonder—as she talks excitedly about someone I'll most likely never meet—if I've made the right decision, after all.


	3. Boxing

Thanks so much for the positive feedback, guys. I'm so glad that you're liking the story. For those of you who are unhappy thus far and making your feelings known to me, I encourage you to drink some water, take a deep breath, and (surprise) stop reading immediately. I care about your well-being and don't want to see you get hurt again.

Thanks again, everyone! Enjoy!

* * *

"What the ever-living fuck is this motherfucking piece of shit?" she asks, and her voice paints a remarkably accurate portrait of the face she's wearing. I know her faces—_all_ of her faces. I know their cousins and evil twins and other relatives too. I prefer the company of some more than others with increasing specificity as the years flip by like the worn pages of a sometimes endless-seeming work of fiction. She knows that, too, so I see the ones I prefer less and less.

She holds up a battered wooden clown, his facial expression—once brightly applied and unbelievably cheerful—is now chipped away into one of insecurity or perhaps, indecision. His name is Dusty and one foot is being held onto the end of his stubby, wooden leg with two thick pieces of weary duct tape and a sunflower sticker that came in a first-grade coloring book about nature. She holds him up in the air by his delicate, mostly intact arm and I reply carefully, as though I'm maneuvering through critical seconds of a hostage situation.

"Please put that down, okay? Just right there on that chair."

"Not until you tell me why you let me sleep in such close proximity to Satan's forgotten fetus spawn, here."

"_Satan's fetus spawn_?"

"It's literally the first thing that came to my head, so—"

"That's disconcerting, Kat."

"Answer me," she demands without much enthusiasm. She absentmindedly pets the top of Ottoman's comically round head with her foot, and for awhile, it's a strange balancing act to watch. A clown and a cat and Kat somewhere in the middle.

"What, you don't keep things from your childhood just so you can…you know, _have_ things from your childhood?"

"Of course I do. Let's see," she says, sitting Dusty down so she can count off on her fingers. I breathe a mostly silent sigh of relief as she continues, "Anger, resentment, disappointment, _night terrors_…all lovely relics from my childhood."

Kat's mother and father were always about twenty years older than everyone else's parents. Her mother birthed her well into her forties and her father was even older—in his late fifties, at least. It was hard to say, really, because he looked like a Marvel comic interpretation of Father Time and mostly sat by the fireplace with a banana and the remote control to a television that didn't exist. By the time Kat had entered her teenage years, he was also wearing a rather obvious hearing aid and her mother smiled a lot. Her lipstick was often drawn in a crude heart right above her actual top lip and she always smelled of Ginger Snaps and plastic. If the virtue of friendship hadn't bound me to ignore the obvious eccentricity of the Richardson household, it would've all been strangely comical. Viciously surreal. Like the stereotypical family of a Sundance feature meant to make you feel empathy for those wishful but unstable Baby Boomers in those muted colors and their early-boozing teenagers who pasted rebellion on the wall and gyrated to songs they couldn't understand in people's couch-lined basements. When she painted the walls of her room black and lived in earphones that blasted constantly—even as she ate her Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes off of brown dinner plates—is when her mother stopped smiling and her father stopped caring that his hearing was slipping away.

"That's obviously not what I mean, Kat."

"It never is," she says with a shrug, "anyway, change of subject, please. Let's talk about the fact that you're moving in with your high school crush. Can we do that?"

"We've talked about it."

"But you're doing that thing where you're trying to be all cool and aloof about shit when I know—I _know_—you're doing mental cartwheels of joy right now."

"It's like I told you the day I went to see the place, seeing her really put things in perspective. We're older and different and she…I don't know. I think maybe it's over."

"What's over?"

"The crush. I think it's over."

She laughs maniacally, steadying herself with her hands on her knees as she shakes her head and laughs harder. I know she's waiting for me to speak so she can carry on the drama even further.

"What, you don't believe it's over?" I ask, impatiently, taping the last box and sliding it to the side.

"Oh, come on. You're not still sticking to that fucking lie are you? Like, Ashley, really? _Really_?"

"It's been a long time! I'm not saying that she's not still attractive, because she is. I'm not saying that I never had a crush on her, because I clearly did. What I'm saying is that I can be her fucking roommate without salivating every time she walks in front of me because things aren't the same, okay? When I was obsessed with Spencer Carlin, I was a kid who had never even kissed anyone. And I had idealized her into this almost…whatever, it's different to have a thing for someone when you're in high school and then live with them when you're an adult. We're going to share a bathroom, Kat. How do you idealize someone that you're going to share a toilet with? You can't. You can't do it."

Kat plops down in her ottoman with Ottoman, looking smug and content, "And what I'm saying, my friend, is that you would be head over heels for Spencer Carlin if you had to share a motherfucking _tampon_, alright?"

"That's absolutely disgusting."

"_You're_ absolutely disgusting—and a liar."

Ottoman meows his agreement and buries his head in Kat's lap, but they're both wrong.

"You'll see," I say, hoisting up the largest box and gesturing toward the door.

"What do you want?" she asks, shrugging again.

"Hold the door open."

"I can't. I'm holding Ottoman."

"What would you do if you came home and found that I had given Ottoman away to a kindly old lady in need of a massive companion?'

"Find the old bitch, dice her up, apologize, put her in the freezer, save Ottoman from moth balls and re-runs of 'Are You Being Served?', find _you_, do the same but with more enjoyment and without the apology."

I stare at her, amazed at the kinds of thoughts her brain produces until she sighs, carefully sits Ottoman down, and grabs the door. She leans against with an all-knowing, syrupy-sweet grin and laughs softly as I slowly make my way through the frame.

"Thanks, pal," I say, when I feel the rush of cold wind on my face.

"Anytime."

She's left a key under the doormat with a folded note. When I open it, straining to decipher it in the dark hallway, there's only a smiley face and a large (but characteristically neat,) "Welcome." I re-fold it and slip it into my back pocket, holding my hand there for longer than necessary. It's something that high school Ashley would've done, and I consider crumpling up the note just to feel beyond it.

I don't.

The back and forth and up and down are tedious and absurd. The suitcases and boxes are carelessly stuffed to full capacity and every time I go to lift either, I'm met with a weight so immense that I consider just giving up and living outside on the grass. I try to remember all the free, coincidental exercise I'm getting and it works for at least five or six minutes every hour. Then I forget because a box has landed on my foot or an able-bodied citizen with free hands scoots past me on his or her way up the stairs.

Soon, the sun begins to set and the wind whips my hair into my face, nearly blinding me as I walk back and forth and up and down over and over. But it also gives me a deadline—before the sky is completely dark—and I move slightly faster. There's an end in sight. And by the time her headlights are dimming and then disappearing altogether (somehow making the note in my pocket burn with relevance,) I'm smiling without much effort and clutching my last box triumphantly. She exits her car and walks toward me, tilting her head in recognition. It occurs to me that it's the first time this has happened, even after all those years.

"I think I forgot to tell you," she says, shifting to her left foot and adjusting a large laptop bag on her right shoulder, "someone else has already moved in."

I'm so dizzy with exhaustion that for a second too long, I panic. It must be extremely evident in my expression because she quickly waves her hand in apology and speaks again, "Bad time for jokes. I get it."

"I was about to cry. I mean, you realize that I was about to cry just then, right?"

She laughs and it's welcomed and perfect. A salve to all the parts that are in pain.

"Yeah, you looked so horrified that I couldn't even hold out long enough to really torture you," she says, and soon we're walking in unison up the pathway, "which I imagine means that this has been a really lovely day of moving for you, huh?"

"Absolutely. Granted, I want to shoot myself in the face, but overall it was fantastic."

"Should we move all the stuff back into your car so you can start all over again? I mean, since you enjoyed it so much…"

"You know what? That's okay. I think I'm good."

She shrugs and fumbles with her keys, stepping in front of me to hold the door and I try not to think of Kat. Try not to think of her self-righteous _knowing_. Ignore the fact that she's always looked at me the same, even as I vigorously sculpted myself into something different.

"I was expecting more from a personal trainer, Ashley. This is pretty disappointing stuff," she says with a smirk as she watches me use my feet to push the box across the hardwood floors and into my new room.

"That was my old job, thank you," I yell, turning around and walking back into the living room as soon as it's safely inside, "now I'm a yoga instructor. You're probably getting them confused because I sent you both jobs in my e-mail just in case."

"Ah, that's right. I guess you can't use sun salutations and that lotus shit to move boxes."

"Actually," I say, pausing to take a long sip of bottled water, "you build a lot of strength with those poses."

"Oh. Then you must be a pretty inadequate instructor."

We exchange faces before she drops her bag and shrugs out of her coat. She rests her hand on what appears to be the remote control for the television before looking at me and shaking her head, abandoning it like an old security blanket.

"I used to turn it on just for the noise, you know?" she explains needlessly, running a hand through her hair and taking a hairclip with it, "I have heating pads. You want one…or ten?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Shut up. How many?"

I stare at her for a moment before giving in, "Let's try three, mom."

I realize my mistake only when she winces a little, and even though I want to apologize—fix it—I know that I can't. How would I know it needed to be fixed? How could I even know that without…

"Okay," she says, recovering with an enthusiastic nod. I watch her, still, as she moves quickly down the hall and into her room. There's a bit of a commotion as drawers are opened and packages are ripped open, and then I hear her heels getting closer and the sound reverberates off the walls. I turn the other way.

"Alright, so…" she says, studying a small, colorful box, "it says we have to take them out of the package and then…yeah, okay. This is unnecessarily confusing."

"Here, I can do it," I say, reaching for the pad.

"Would you please just shut your mouth and let me help you?"

I smile, and raise my hands in submission. She nods at this, and resumes reading. Maybe it's fixed.

"Okay, here we go," she finally says, and then her hands are wrapping me with strange gauze contraptions and something firm is resting against my skin, "can you feel it getting hot?"

"I think so."

"Good."

I let out an unknowingly held breath as she walks away. Hold another just as quickly when she collapses beside me, massaging her temples with both hands. Her eyes are closed, and it feels like I've reached the bonus round of allowing myself to observe her. It doesn't count against me if she doesn't even know it's happening.

"Still in work-mode, Spencer?" I ask, and her eyes slowly open.

"Probably. It's hard to turn off the 'here, let me help yous,' you know?"

"Makes sense."

"I really need to make it a point to like, de-stress somehow. But I never do. I come home and right away I just answer the e-mails I didn't have time for during the day. Before I know it, it's time to go to bed, wake up, and start the whole thing all over again. It's like—"

"Wait, wait. What do you do?"

"I'm a supervisor at a community center. We help low-income families with…_everything_. Ideally, I'd be running my own center. Something smaller and more focused so I could actually spend time with the people I want to help. Maybe even see exactly what it is that I'm helping to change."

"One day, huh?"

"Yeah," she says, staring wistfully out the window, "one day."

"When I want to de-stress, I—"

"Don't need the details, thanks."

I'm confused for a second, but then I laugh once I realize where she thinks this is going.

"Oh, well yeah. That too. But what I was going to say is that when I want to de-stress, I go out to dinner, say to hell with the bill, and eat and drink whatever I want. Try not to think about anything else."

"And that works?"

"For the most part."

"For the most part?" she says, raising an eyebrow.

"Well the next morning I have to spend an extra hour or so with my trainer, but I like to think it's worth it in the end."

"So you're one of those insane, calorie-counting, gym whores then?"

"Yes. Though that's probably not the terminology I'd opt for."

She laughs, "I could never live like that. I'd go crazy. Seriously, just wait until you see the inside of the fridge. It looks like a six year-old boy lives here."

"Well some of us aren't as fortunate as you. Some of us have to work at it."

"How do you know that I don't have to work at it?"

"Because you've always looked like this."

She makes a noise of amusement, and it triggers my memory. "You just met me, Davies."

I stand up suddenly, realizing that I've slipped yet again. She's looking up at me with questioning eyes and I feel my heart start to beat through my chest, "Just an assumption."

"You and your assumptions…"

"Yeah, right."

For a brief moment, I see her from someone else's eyes. An earlier version of myself, watching as she taps her pen against a thick textbook and looks to the heavens for help with Calculus or Chemistry or European History. There was a time when I knew her schedule as well as my own. I would position myself in prime locations, trying to convince myself that _that_ day would be the day. I would say something. I would make myself known and insert myself into her realm of options just like that. It would be easy—like breathing. But I knew it was an imaginary day. A day created so I would be ruled by hope instead of misery and endless longing. The words weren't easy, and neither was the breathing sometimes. Nothing seemed to be "just like that" the way it is now.

"We should do dinner tonight. It should be a celebratory, 'Ashley's all moved in' dinner," she says, and for the very first time, I realize how bizarre all of this truly is, "on you, of course."

Eventually, I'll have to tell her.

"Actually, I'm supposed to go out with a friend from work tonight. But—"

"Oh, sorry. I don't know why I assumed you wouldn't have plans," she says, waving me off like she should know these things already.

"You and your assumptions," I say with a wink, "but soon. We should definitely have dinner. This weekend, maybe?"

"Sounds good," she replies before standing up.

Her eyes land on everything except me as she looks around the room before turning to walk down the hall with a slight smile. I watch as she retreats, but this time, I know it counts.

* * *

I blink her face away more than once as the bass pounds and the lights flicker over me in red and yellow and blue. There are girls everywhere, and their faces could be familiar. It's always so hard to tell when the lights only flash for so long and their hair hides their faces every time they move as they dance in front of me like young children seeking attention. I've made it a point not to give too much, and not to need too much either. Both are dangerous.

Kyla dances next to me—drink in hand—and I smile as I catch her eyes, even through the haze of alcohol and women. She works with me at the studio, teaches the 12-2 Bikram. We would pass each other in the hall before we met, and she would always be in the company of the latest male student to fall in love with her. We would smile, seeing ourselves reflected in the other, and go our separate ways. It wasn't until we had to team up for a rather large class that we became friends.

She was Kat's polar opposite, giggly and upbeat. Easy to smile, quick to forgive. Of course, the friendship was only made sweeter by the fact that she only knew about me what I chose to divulge and _Kat?_ She knew too much sometimes. Occasionally, I required a break from "too much." When I did, I would phone Kyla and we would go out in pursuit of all the bars and clubs had to offer us. Later, I would find her draped against a guy by the restrooms and make a gesture that I would call her in the morning. She would see the blonde or brunette or redhead next to me and nod. Easy. Simple.

"You aren't dancing!" the girl in front of me (Anna? _Hannah_?) yells over the music.

She's right. My feet had stopped moving, and as I lean close, I inhale her expensive perfume, "Maybe I'm ready to leave. Are you ready to leave?"

"But I just got here," she whispers, and I feel the tiny hairs on my neck stand up in anticipation.

"I'll make you a sandwich."

"What?" she answers with a confused laugh, "you'll do what?"

"I'll make you a sandwich and bring it to you on a tray…in my bed."

At some point, I'm reminded by a distant thought that I had yet to do any grocery shopping for the apartment. I'm marginally disappointed until I realize it won't matter anyway. The sandwich is bait. It makes me appear more invested than I'm willing to be, yet charmingly awkward. The awkwardness makes them feel like maybe they're the ones doing _me_ the favor by following me home and the charm reminds them that they're not.

"Who says I even want a sandwich?"

"Everyone wants a sandwich, but fine. I'll bring you some cranberry juice too. What's your stance on straws?"

"I'm not sleeping with you," she says, and that's when I know I've got her.

"You're not?"

"No way. I don't even know you."

"No, no. Of course not. I don't even _want_ to sleep with you, really. I just want to make you a sandwich," I repeat, and that's when I slide my hands around her waist while looking at her with pleading eyes, "please?"

"I want the cranberry juice too," she whispers, before pressing her lips against mine.

When I close my eyes and sink into the kiss, Spencer's face greets me in the sudden darkness with a knowing smile.


	4. Only Surprises

_**Thanks for the kindness, guys. Enjoy!**_

* * *

**Chapter 4: Only Surprises**

It was a cold day, mostly gray and dark poetry inspiring with hints of Renaissance drama. It made me feel young and bored and I had spent the morning at work drinking Earl Gray tea (on purpose) and spinning around in my black leather chair with Top 40 blasting in my head. Every hour or so the sun would threaten me with the promise of energy and warmth, before creeping even further behind the clouds within seconds. It really seemed about right.

Every time I moved my feet to spin my worn—but mostly trusted—swivel chair around in perfect circles, Jonica's pupils would slowly climb upward until she could finally rest them on my face. She wouldn't tilt her head or adjust her body in the slightest. Instead, she would take the scenic route and when her eyes would finally arrive at their destination, she seemed all the more irritated for her trouble.

"Please, stop."

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'? Stop spinning around in your chair like you're two years-old. It's annoying," she says, and because I don't know what else to do, I smile back at her, "seriously, though. It really is."

"Sorry," I say, sounding every bit like the two year-old she had in mind.

"It's fine."

I stare at her for a moment as she turns her attention back to an open case file, perched and vulnerable at the end of my desk and nestled amongst the chaos. She's cut her hair even shorter than usual, and I notice that it makes her ears look a bit pointy like some kind of modern nymph. I'm still trying to work out if that's a good or a bad thing when she straightens in her chair and sighs at me.

"I don't even know why we still do this."

"Because we have to," I say, fighting the urge to spin my chair one last time, "because we don't want it to look like I'm playing favorites."

"It's a waste of time."

"Well…"

She's absolutely right, of course. Still, I'm her boss and her position requires weekly supervision meetings in my office at 11 o'clock every week whether we share clothes and talk about our stalled romantic lives outside of work or not. It's only fair.

"Whatever," she says, sighing again, "anyway, I meant to tell you earlier but you have a date tonight."

For approximately seven seconds, I'm sure I've heard her incorrectly. I have no memory of telling her about a date…nor did I have a memory of actually _having_ one, so clearly my hearing is prematurely failing me.

"I don't think so," I say, shaking my head emphatically.

"Oh, but you do—with Robin."

"Wait, what are you talking about?" I ask, rolling my chair forward and leaning in as far as my desk will allow, "you don't just say things like that to me and act like there's noth—"

"Listen, I knew if I just gave you her number that you wouldn't do anything with it, okay? So, as your friend, I took it upon myself to make sure that doesn't happen—again. You should be thanking me, Spencer. I did you a huge favor."

"I'm sorry. Did you just say something about doing me a _favor_?"

"What, so you're just never going to go out with anyone ever again?"

"First of all, Jon, I never said that. Second of all, if and when I decide I'm going out with someone, it will be a decision that _I_ make because believe it or not, it's _my_ life."

"Then live it. If it's your life then live it, Spence. You work, you go home. You work, you go home. That's it! And it's like, month after month after month. Maybe this isn't even a date. Maybe it's a goddamn intervention!" she says, throwing her hands up and letting out a short, frustrated-sounding laugh.

For some reason I feel like crying. I can feel the tears welling up in the corners of my eyes, and I'm not sure if it's an anger-fueled desire or something else entirely, but I won't do it. I won't cry.

"It's not your place. You don't even get it," I say, standing up and walking over to sit on the dusty windowsill, "you don't get to do stuff like this and say it's for my own good."

"But it is."

"You wouldn't know."

She stands up as well, but doesn't come any closer. Instead, she clasps her hands together, thrusting them at me to emphasize her point. "Can I at least tell you about her? Do whatever you want to do, but at least just let me give you the rundown on who the fuck you could be turning down, please."

This morning I had brewed my coffee while my eyes lingered on a mysterious tray stacked with dishes and other items: two plates, two glasses, four or five napkins, an empty plastic bottle of Ocean Spray cranberry juice, and a white paper bag from Ike's Place—a deli in the city. There were two distinctly different shades of lipstick imprinted on the rim of each glass.

It's rare that someone's reputation isn't all rumor and realistic fiction. I was slightly surprised, and that's all it was.

Surprise.

"Fine, tell me."

Jonica smiles and nods, excitedly, "Awesome! Okay, so she's a small business owner…not here, in the city. Flower shop or something, I don't know. Anyway, she owns her own business, graduated from Stanford, good-looking, no smoking or drinking but I'm sure you can work around that if need be…"

"Why is she single?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Um, a valid one? If she's so amazing, why is she single?"

"I don't know, Spencer. Why are _you_ single? Why am _I_ single? Why is _Charlize Theron_ single? Hold on, is she still single?"

"Christ, I hope so. I know for sure that we got Stuart Townsend out of the way. Oh, but wait. I heard she was with Keanu Reeves or something. Like, they were seen canoodling in a bar or a club or something in New York."

"No, no, no. I heard that too, but her rep denied it. Now she's supposedly with someone else but I can't remember who it is. Another actor, though."

"If you think of who it is, let me know because obviously if she's single I still have a chance."

"Ahh!" Jonica shouts, pointing at me with a maniacal grin, "but you don't because you're going on a date with Robin and you're going to love her and you're going to get illegally married and have babies."

"Yeah, that's definitely not putting the cart before the horse at all."

"So, you'll go? Come on, _come on_. Please go. She's single because she has too much going for her. You know how it is."

"I know that's what friends tell each other even if it's not true."

"So you've been lying to me this entire time?"

I shrug, "No, because you weren't always single. You only have to lie if the person's single."

"Thanks."

"Anyway," I say, walking back to my desk and shuffling papers for no reason at all, "I'll go. But if I hate her, I'm going to introduce you to Ashley by telling her you've wanted to meet her for a very, very long time. Know what I mean?"

She claps her hands and smiles again before fully absorbing my words. When her face contorts into utter repulsion, I know she's heard me fully, "Oh God, gross. How's that going by the way?"

"Well, it hasn't even been twenty-four hours. Though, she did manage to bring a girl home already in such a short amount of time so maybe that's irrelevant."

"Like, is she actually fucking serious? Who does that on the first night?"

"Ashley Davies, apparently."

"Just hearing her name makes me feel like I need lab results," Jonica says through gritted teeth, shuddering dramatically, "you've got to get her out of there."

"It's not like I ran into some random girl on my way to the bathroom or anything. I just saw some dishes out this morning and it was kind of obvious someone had been over. I was surprised, not offended."

"Well, I'm offended and not the least bit surprised. This is what she does. Everyone knows—okay, not everyone, because she clearly still manages to pick up girls. But _a lot_ of people know to avoid her at all costs because she's…she's…the sexual Medusa or something."

"Ha! The sexual Medusa? Isn't that giving her quite a bit of credit, Jon? I mean, really…"

She shakes her head frantically, leaning against the back of her chair for support, "No, it's not. Look, I'm not trying to say that the dumb slut doesn't have some kind of gift—if that's what you want to call it–for making women sleep with her. Because she does. What I'm saying is that every person I know and respect has either slept with her and regretted it or heard the stories and avoided eye contact with her. But these girls who like, sleep with her and fall for her or whatever? They're complete idiots and I'd never be friends with one. Just saying."

"I see you're rather passionate about this, so let's just declare you the winner and move on."

She groans, "I'm not trying to win. I'm just saying…"

"She hasn't done anything wrong and I'm not kicking her out for having sex last night and leaving a tray on the counter. Let's just drop it."

"You're the one who brought it up."

"So now I'm the one dropping it, okay?"

"Whatever you say, Spence," she says, giving me a strange look.

I look at her and shake my head once. She says nothing else about it.

* * *

"A date, huh? That's…interesting."

The tray is missing from the counter and the fridge is stocked with a variety of low-fat condiments, pro-biotic yogurt, leafy vegetables, and energy drinks. It makes me feel like I'm sharing space with the 80's version of Chuck Norris.

She had been sitting on the couch when I finally opened the front door. The largest window was open and the whole apartment smelled like rain and wet grass and…_her_. It was all very startling after months of living alone with the windows tightly shut and locked. And now, there was this living body present when I opened the door and eyes that met mine and a smile that waited to be reciprocated and faded quickly when it wasn't.

"Why is that interesting?"

"Well," she says, moving around a bit on the barstool, "you mentioned something about how you don't exactly _do_ that."

"Well, Jonica arranged it all, so…"

"Hold on. What's her last name?"

"The date or Jonica?"

"Jonica."

"I'm not telling you."

She laughs, "Oh my God. Why not?"

"Look, you haven't slept with her, okay? Is that what you're trying to figure out?"

"Of course not."

"And you're not _going_ to sleep with her."

"Of course not," she says, but she's biting her bottom lip and holding back a smile.

"Ashley!"

"I'm kidding. I'm just kidding. Alright, so you're going out on a date. Are you excited?"

"No."

"Do you know what you're wearing?"

"No."

"Yeah, this is going to be a success."

I take a long sip from my wine glass as she shakes her head at me. The truth is, I don't even want it to go well. I don't want the pressure of having to explain myself to someone else, rearrange my schedule, sit across from their candlelight-illuminated faces and tell my story, be jealous and sensitive and _care_. I don't want to care.

"I'm going to shut Jonica up. That's the only reason."

"What do you know about her?"

"She owns some business, went to Stanford. I think she's older than me too. Like, in her mid-thirties."

"_Oh_."

"Oh? What's that mean?"

She frowns, "I don't know."

"Yes you do, but I'm not going to force it out of you because I have to go get ready."

I sigh, holding an imaginary gun to my head, but her expression remains the same.

"I mean, you don't _have_ to go, right?"

I narrow my eyes at her, "What?"

"Like, this is just something your friend's making you do, so—"

"She's not _making_ me."

"Okay, well that's what it sounds like, Spencer. Do you do everything this girl tells you to do? I mean…"

"No, _Ashley_. I don't."

"Look, I'm not trying to be rude. It's just that, why go out with someone you don't even want to go out with when you can stay here and watch reruns of 'Boston Legal' with me?"

"Who did you fuck last night?"

It comes out of nowhere, so she has a right to look completely caught off guard. In fact, I'm almost positive that her face might be the mirror image of my own and I laugh, begin the process of backtracking even though I have no explanations.

"Sorry, I—"

"No, I'm sorry," she says, hopping off the barstool and walking until she's standing right in front of me, "it was probably really fucked up to tell you before I moved in that I would limit the amount of girls I brought back here and then bring someone back the night I move in. That's…yeah, that sounds ridiculous, actually."

"Ashley, no. I have no idea where that came from. I'm just having a weird day and I saw the tray this morning and…I'm just not used to having a roommate again. That's all it is. It's not like I had to interact with some stranger in my pajamas. I wouldn't have even known had I not seen the tray, so please just ignore me."

"But…"

"This is why I don't date, right? It makes me crazy."

"Dating makes everyone crazy. That's why I don't do it."

"Right."

"But in this case, you're not crazy. Two girls a week, tops. That still stands even though I've now set some kind of precedent that makes it look like I can't even control myself for a night."

"You're fine. And seriously, I've really got to get ready. I'll be late to this date that I already hate."

"At least you still have the gift of rhyme. That's pretty important."

"Right?"

She nods, and we both shrug at the same time and laugh before she waves me away with a quiet, "Go, go, go."

As I walk down the hall, I hear her singing, "I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date!" and know Jonica has it all wrong.

Except for when she doesn't have it wrong at all.

* * *

Except for when she has it very, very right.

The second I slide into the booth across from Robin, I feel my nerves begin to subside and trickle off of me along with the drops of rain collected from my short walk from the car. Her presence is warm and welcoming, and it shouldn't make sense but it does. I notice the way she nervously circles the rim of her glass with her index finger and it makes me want to hold her hand even though I don't move at all. Simply watch.

"I don't do this a lot," I say after another glass of wine.

"I don't either."

"Not that I don't want to, it's just that—"

"Yeah, I know. No time, no energy, no…no, a lot of things," she says, running her hands through long, blonde hair.

"Exactly."

"Then we'll call it something other than a date. The next one too."

I smile, nod enthusiastically, "What do we call it then?"

"Um, let's see…date practice?"

"So, we're practicing for when we're ready to stop seeing each other and instead feel it's time to meet people we actually like? And when we meet those people, it'll be great because we'll have had all this practice dating?"

"Sounds like a plan," she says, chuckling softly, "so, to dating practice."

She holds her glass, waiting for me to complete the toast. Instead, all I can focus on is my own reflection in it as it's held in mid-air. I look bright and hopeful—a face I've missed. I realize in the very next moment that I feel hopeful about Ashley too. Hopeful that her presence in the apartment will be good for me somehow.

Robin clears her throat, an eyebrow raised in wait. I lean forward, hear the clinking of my glass as it reaches hers and there's an excitement.

A rush.

"To dating practice."


	5. Let's Get Serious, Here

**Sorry about the wait, guys! And thanks so much for the feedback! Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 5: Let's Get Serious, Here

* * *

She's smiling, and it's the first thing I notice when I walk into the living room. My first instinct is to smile as well, and when her eyes meet mine, it only grows. I can feel it, try a bit of everything to stop it, fail miserably. Realize that it's okay.

"Hey," she says, laughing into a yawn.

_There's not a single room I've ever been in that wouldn't have benefitted from your presence inside it. Not one._

"Why are you laughing?"

"I don't know," she says, letting her hands fall from her hair down to her waist and back.

But of course she does. I've seen that face on people. Heard that laugh. I watch her as she shifts nervously. _Youthfully_.

The date had been a smash. She liked her.

"You don't know?" I ask, sounding like a tired, distracted parent. She picks up on it and laughs again.

"Well, _now _I'm laughing at _you_."

"Story of my life, Spencer."

"Oh, I'm so sure."

"How was the um…how was your night out?" I ask, forcing a smile as I sit in the chair across from her and fold my arms, "oh, and please remind me to get some coffee before I leave."

"I don't think anyone's ever had to remind me to get coffee, but okay."

"Ah, I know. But we'll start talking and I'll forget and then I'll get to work and realize that I haven't been properly caffeinated and it'll ruin my whole day."

"You don't have it at work? Or…"

"Yeah, well, they do. They do. But I don't like drinking it before I have a class because…like, if I drink it at home I have to time to…look, just _tell me about last night_."

She sighs, shaking her head. The hair that was once in her hands falls into her face and I literally feel like I'm being haunted by every moment I ever spent staring at her from (what felt like) miles away.

"Stop shaking your head. I can tell it went well," I say, successfully disguising approximately 75% of the frustration I feel.

It's not that I still like her. It's that the old Ashley still likes her. It's not about the present. It's about the past. Moments like these, I'm overtaken by an Ashley that still wants her, while the better one just wants her to be careful because first dates can be lies. I know because I only ever have first dates.

"No, I'm not. I just feel really…stupid. Like, I feel really stupid and immature because yeah, it went well. It went really well and I like her a lot and now I have this crush or something. How ridiculous does that sound?"

"You don't even know her."

"Right? I know, and yeah, exactly. I don't know her," she says, studying her fingers as she searches for the validation she needs, "but isn't that what a crush _is_ sometimes? You obsess over this person that you don't even really know?"

"I guess so. I mean, I—"

"Why would I even ask you? Of course you don't know. Girls have crushes on you…not the other way around."

"Right."

She smiles at me, but it's different. It's with sympathy. "Crushes feel good. They _can_. I had forgotten how good it can feel."

"Sure, okay," I say, wondering if this is it. Should I tell her that this isn't our first time sharing walls or let it all just…

"You don't feel like you're missing out, huh?" she asks, leaning forward with her chin resting on her tightly-balled fist.

"Missing out?"

"Don't you feel like you're missing out on that part where you can't wait to see someone again?"

"Wait a minute. Up until about six seconds ago, you were the no-nonsense, no-dating type. Now all of a sudden you feel compelled to preach to me about how grand love is?"

"No one said anything about _love_, Ashley. It's just a crush."

"A crush that feels good."

"Right, a crush that feels good. And yeah, I admittedly was anti-dating and all that. I absolutely was. It's just that I had forgotten how…"

"How good it feels."

"See, I feel so dumb. Stop me if you feel like you're going to explode from all the absurdity. I can run and get the bottle of industrial-strength carpet cleaner from under the bathroom sink."

But she looks so young and hopeful, that I just sit with my mouth slightly ajar. I can feel the words wanting to push their way up and over my teeth and through my lips. Fill the room with their bitter warnings about what it actually feels like to want someone so badly that you can't hardly stand living inside yourself for another a second. Your skin just tingles from wanting to fold itself inside-out and pour all of that _want_ onto the floor until it oozes away and traps someone else, instead.

She looks so beautiful and scared that I just let out a short, gruff laugh and choose my words more carefully, "No, I think it's good. If it makes you happy then it's good. Are you seeing her again? Did you make plans?"

"Saturday we're supposed to maybe get dinner again. That's pretty soon, huh? Maybe I should have waited a few more days."

"I thought we were…never mind."

"Wait, what? Tell me."

"Nothing, I just thought you and I were doing dinner on Saturday. You know, the whole celebratory thing."

"Oh my God! Of course. What was I thinking? I'll text her and reschedule for Sunday or something."

"No, no. Have your follow-up date. It's cool."

"Ashley, you and I are going. I'm excited to go."

"Why?" I ask, realizing how indulgent the question is even before it's asked.

"Why are we going or why am I excited?"

"Why are you excited?"

She looks perplexed for a moment, but answers, "Because I'm anxious to figure out who you are behind all the girls and the rumors and the pretty face and the ridiculous body."

My cheeks are on fire, a shameless blush spreading like wildfire makes me look 100% less cool than I like to think I am.

"Are you seriously blushing?" she asks, tilting her head back in a rather loud fit of laughter, "I'm not trying to stroke your ego because God knows you don't need it. I'm just stating what you already know about yourself. I mean, isn't that your claim to fame…your looks? Because it's not like it could be your personality."

"Thanks."

"No, I don't mean it like that. I'm just saying, it can't be your personality because you only talk to these girls for six and a half seconds before you get them in bed, right?"

"Six and a half seconds is too long, of course. I try to limit it to like, two or three."

"What was I thinking?" she asks, sighing dramatically.

"This is why you're the person with the crush and I'm the person who people have crushes _on_. For that very important reason."

"Because I talk too much?"

"Something like that, yes."

"Oh well," she says with a shrug, "maybe one day someone will look beyond it and have a crush on _me_. There's a first time for everything, I've heard."

I nod in response, "Yeah, maybe."

We both hear a strange conversation taking place outside of the apartment door about fruit bats and wingspans and we listen before staring at each other and laughing.

"_What_?" she asks, nodding her head once in the direction of the voices.

"I have no fucking clue."

"Don't forget your coffee," she says suddenly, looking up at me as I stand and stretch my arms over my head.

"Right, thanks. What about you?"

"I already had a cup."

"No, don't you have to get ready for work?"

"I think I'm going to use a sick day today, actually."

"I bet you have like, forty."

"That's a bet you'd win, because I do. I never take them."

"Of course not."

"I love when you do that thing where you act like you know me," she says, trailing me into the kitchen.

"I do. But not just you, Spencer. I know _all_ women," I say as I reach into the cabinet for a mug.

I can feel her eyes on me, but she's not staring. She's thinking. I glance back at her over my shoulder as I pour my coffee and I wait for whatever it is that's forming in her head to be said. By the time I'm spooning sugar and stirring—the clinking of the spoon against the ceramic mug reminding me of Kat's neighbor and her wind chimes—she finally speaks.

"If you know women so well, tell me what I'm thinking about right now."

I laugh, softly, and look at her. Her eyes are complexly blue that every time I see into them, it's like a brand new experience and for a moment, I forget her challenge. But when I remember, I lift my mug to my lips and enjoy the first taste of _morning_ and adulthood. When I hear her mumble "see?" under her breath, I accept it.

"That's easy."

"Oh?"

"And to answer your questions, yes, she'll call today. No, you shouldn't turn on your laptop because if you do, you might as well be at work. No, I'm not lonely and yes, _this_," I say looking down at all the parts of me not hidden by too-short boxers and a too-small tank top, "requires quite a lot of exercise, uh-huh."

I lift my coffee at her in a one-sided toast and walk towards the bathroom, my ears perked for her response. As my hand finds the doorknob, I hear it.

"Not bad, Davies."

I close the door behind me.

* * *

"Fuck her, get it out of your system, and then move on. It's simple, but you've got to do it. Yeah, you've _got_ to do it or else you're screwed."

"I think you're missing my point, here…"

"Jan Matthews is doing your class today, right? Not mine?"

"Yeah, I have her in the three o'clock, I think. Woman's a goddamn nightmare."

"Isn't she terrible? It's like, fool, if you've been taking these classes for two years and still can't touch your toes, something is wrong with you. Stop wasting your money and go to see a doctor or whatever," Kyla says, holding the door open as we walk into the first open room," anyway, you've got to fuck this roommate."

"It's never going to happen. I just…"

"Why are you saying that? You can get it if you want it."

"Please, don't talk about her like that. She's not just some girl at a bar, okay? Like, she's a really good person."

She stares at me with narrowed eyes for a few seconds before I grow nervous under her obvious scrutiny, "What?"

"What do you mean, 'what?'" she asks, rolling her bright pink mat out and sitting down.

"I don't get what the big deal is."

"A lot of those girls you take home are probably good people too, Ashley. But I don't hear you asking me to be all respectful and shit toward them, do I? No, just this girl. Just this roommate who apparently, you're not even _trying_ to sleep with. She's a girl, right? Since when do you not sleep with girls?"

"You act like I sleep with every girl I encounter."

"No, I know that's not the case because you and I haven't hooked up."

"You're straight, remember?" I ask, raising an eyebrow as I sit down beside her.

"Yeah, that's really stopped you in the past."

"Look, what I was trying to say is that she said some things to me today that made me think about all this pointless sex I have all the time."

"Oh, so now sex is pointless? Yeah, I don't like this girl. What's her name again?"

"Spencer, but…"

"Yeah, I don't like, Spencer."

"I'm not saying that sex is pointless. I just wonder if maybe it's time to simply _try_ dating. Or at least, if it's time to be open to the idea of seeing someone more than once and for more than one reason."

"You'll be a sad, pathetic housewife by the time the year is up. I'll have to explain to people that you're not dead when they ask about you. It's going to be tragic, Ash. This is the end of your legacy. Kiss it goodbye," she says, holding out her open palm to me, "like, if this was your legacy in this hand?"

She brings her other hand down in a loud clap, "Oh no, look! No more legacy."

I shake my head, "This is out of control. I'm talking to Kat."

"You're kidding, right?"

"What? Kat knows the situation. She gets it."

"The only thing Kat gets is weirder over time."

* * *

She's wearing a black skirt, a black turtleneck, a black beret, and thick lines of black mascara. It makes me feel like I'm trying to have a serious conversation with a cartoon villain.

"Buy me more coffee, or else."

"Or else what, Kat?" I ask, sighing in frustration.

"Nothing. I just want more coffee."

"I'm trying to be serious right now, okay? I need help."

"You're still into her, you're jealous of this new mystery woman, you sleep with a lot of people because you've never met your emotions before, and your life is pretty much a pornographic lie with even worse acting," she says, finishing it off with a tight-lipped smile, "now, get me a fucking cappuccino—dry."

"Thanks, Kat. Thanks for being the worse friend ever."

"Ashley, you know I hate pretense. So what do you want me to say? She's all you've ever wanted. Some people grow out of that motherfucking bullshit. You didn't. Not like it's your fault, exactly. But still, you don't think the fucking universe has failed to notice that over half of the girls you fuck look like they could be her fucking cousins?"

"Why do you use so much profanity? Some of that wasn't even necessary," I say, sipping chai unenthusiastically from my paper cup.

"I use profanity because I don't know how to express myself. Just like you use women because you don't know how to express _yourself_."

"Here we go…"

"So what now? You're telling me you want to start taking women seriously because Spencer called you out in her well-intentioned way. I heard you loud and clear, my friend. I'm _hearing_ you. I just don't know what you want me to say."

"Do you think it's a good idea? How about that? How about you tell me whether or not you think it's a good idea."

"In theory. It's just being done for all the wrong reasons so it's essentially the same thing as what you were doing before this brilliant idea popped into that brilliant thought factory you call your head."

"I don't even know her, Kat. I didn't know her then and I don't know her now. I'm getting to know her and so yeah, we'll hopefully be friends this time around."

"Oh, little Ashley. This is just so not in your hands. Imagine a world where you don't feel completely comfortable and you don't get to call the shots and you're more intimidated by someone than they are by you…oh, wait. I know," she says, clearing her throat and frowning at a child sitting next to us in the coffee shop where she spends seven days-a-week, "that was high school. So just pretend you're back in high school and your roommate is Spencer Car—oh wait…"

"I get it, I get it."

"But, if I'm wrong and you honestly feel like it's time to get off the merry-go-round and find yourself a lovely look-alike, then go for it, Zack Morris."

"You know how I feel about that nickname."

"But you're so pretty and mischievous."

"Do you want me to bring back _your_ old nickname?" I ask, tapping my empty cup against the table.

"You swore you'd never!" she says, bringing a pale hand—complete with black nail polish—to where her heart should be.

"It's a promise I plan to keep, unless…"

"Fine, I'll stop."

"Now, do you want another?" I ask, gesturing at her cup.

"Yes, please."

"Okay then."

I stand up and she smiles again, "Thanks, Preppy."

"Kat!"

* * *

At 8:27 the next morning, I swear I'm still dreaming. I had fallen asleep early after coming home to an empty apartment and a note from Spencer that read: Be back soon if you get this before I am.

"Soon" meant longer than two hours because it took me that long before passing out with an open issue of "The Yogi" spread across my chest. I woke up once at 4 am and the apartment was silent. I remember stumbling to the bathroom and noticing that Spencer's bedroom door had been closed and her purse now rested on the kitchen floor.

But now, I could hear two distinctly different voices drifting into my room through the door and I pulled on a hoodie before heading into the living room to investigate.

"Ashley!"

I hear her call my name with an apparent smile, but my eyes are on the stranger that sits beside her on what's now _my_ barstool. She's tall—much taller than me—with blonde hair. Older, yes. But still very attractive with that sort of confidence that age brings. A more enlightened sort of "know it all" confidence that seems to trump these days.

It's no longer a living room. It's a high school class room. My very first spin class. I feel like an intruder.

"Hey," I manage.

The stranger waves like she's the one that belongs.

"Ashley, I want you to meet someone."

It's right then that I decide to ignore Kyla and Kat. It's my life, anyway. And it's time to get serious.


	6. Over Dinner

Chapter 6: Over Dinner

She's sitting in silence, palming a bowl of Multi-Grain Cheerios and flipping through some back-dated copy of a monthly fitness journal. Or at least, I assume it's back-dated. The pages are mostly white, but beige in the lower corners where hurried fingers would flip them back and forth. Several of the pages are doggy-eared. In fact, most—which perhaps, defeats the very purpose.

Silence or no silence, I sip my English Breakfast tea with the lemon wedge crashing against my upper lip and enjoy knowing someone else is here. There's a beating heart and warm skin and a racing mind occupying the same small fraction of space, making it so much more difficult to feel lonely.

I've felt lonely for so long that it's _presence_ that feels like an impostor. It's the _sitting with_ and the _being with_ and the _laughing with_ that doesn't belong to me most of the time. And sometimes—because I honestly can't help it—I hear familiar voices that don't belong echoing off the walls like bouncing balls and I'm reminded of a house that was once filled with laughter flooded with tears instead.

"Hi," I say, just because I want to illicit some sort of reaction from my Cheerio-eating companion and let the memories travel back down into wherever it is that I make them go when re-living's not an option.

I know good doctors who would say that re-living the past can be detrimental to your health. I've always listened to the advice of doctors.

She gives a small smile, her eyes immediately meeting mine, "Hi, Spencer."

She looks shy for a moment, and it seems a bit contradictory to the person she's shown me she is. The shyness is like an old friend who knows all of her secrets even when she no longer has anything in common with it. I can tell by the way she shakes it away, swats at it with her hand like an annoying, persistent insect.

"We're going out tonight, right?"

"Like, to dinner."

"Well, I didn't mean…"

"I know what you meant. And yeah, we are—unless, of course, you have plans with the wife."

She stares at me with an eyebrow raised and I watch as her throat works subtly and her spoon rattles quietly against the ceramic rim of her bowl.

"Wow. So she's already earned that title, huh?"

She simply shrugs, shifts her focus back to the article on achieving balance in the ten-minute workout. But I can still see how uncomfortable she is talking about this.

"What did you think?" I ask her, allowing my fingers to brush hers. I imagine she'd respond more willingly to touch than sound and it's true. Her eyes are meeting mine once again and she doesn't even seem surprised at the sensation. Fleeting, inconsequential touch is what she's used to more than anything, I imagine.

But then, she sighs rather quietly, and it echoes in my ears like the past and I realize that maybe she wants space. She's not me. There's no endearing novelty in synchronicity for her. She's not lonely and she's not alone.

She's never alone.

"She seems fine, I guess. Why?"

"I don't want to bother you."

"What are you talking about?" she asks, shrugging and looking confused.

"You're reading and I'm being annoying so…"

"I've read this like, a billion times. You're not bothering me."

She closes the magazine.

"It's just that…I'm not used to this anymore and I feel like talking about it or something. I don't know."

She looks at me for a moment before reaching for her smoothie. But then she appears to change her mind because she immediately sits the plastic cup back on the table and her eyes watch it slide slowly to the left on a puddle of condensation. I watch too, and for several seconds we sit in silence together and watch the deceptively slow movement like it's performing some absolutely rare and divine act instead of doing what cups do.

"Anyway," she says, shaking her head and laughing once she realizes how much time has passed, "I would let you know if you were bothering me. If you want to talk about Roselyn, that's fine. Go ahead."

"Her name's actually Robin, so…yeah."

"Does it really matter?"

"It might if she starts hanging out here, maybe."

"Ah, right."

She smiles at me, but her eyes must not get the message and so they stay locked on mine and mostly unimpressed. It all makes me very hesitant to divulge, but I do anyway.

"Okay, so did she seem nice or weird or funny or like, smart? You can be honest," I say, shifting forward a bit, "I mean…"

"She was nice."

"What kind of nice did she seem?"

"I wasn't even aware that there were multiple kinds of _nice_."

"Well, of course there are multiple kinds of nice. Are you serious?"

"I'm not saying that I don't agree with you or whatever. I'm saying that I wasn't made aware of such important information."

"Oh, well you're welcome."

"Uh-huh."

"Answer the question."

She appears to actually consider it, opening and closing her mouth several times as if to speak but says nothing until finally, "Like she grew up in a house with a lot of women kind of nice. How's that?"

"Isn't that what people say about guys that are whores?"

"As in gigolos?"

"No, as in men who sleep with a lot of women."

"Probably…I guess. But that's not exactly…"

"So you think she's a whore?"

She lets out a short breath of frustration followed by a smile as she finally sees from my expression that my only intention is to annoy her, "Okay, what I mean is that she seems really _comfortable_ around you. And since it's still pretty early in this courtship or whatever you call it, I have to imagine that she's just used to being around women."

"Right, so this is some kind of jab at the fact that she's old. Like, she's so old that she probably knows at least a quarter of the women on earth."

She laughs, shaking her head, "This is what I've been missing out on all this time with you, huh? Wow."

"When you were living with your friend, Kat or what?"

She's quiet for a moment and the smile that the laughter left behind as a reminder fades quickly away. She looks like she's been _caught_ and I can't figure out why that would be.

"I don't know."

"_What_? What do you mean you don't know? You just said it!"

"Whatever, you called me a whore."

"I'm sorry?" I ask, taken aback.

"You called me a whore. Like, it happened in a sort of roundabout way, but ultimately, you called me a whore."

"When? When did that happen?" I ask, laughing at her accusatory expression.

"You called men who sleep with a lot of women 'whores.' I sleep with a lot of women. Does that make me a whore?" she asks, sliding a spoonful of cereal into her mouth and waiting for me to respond with challenging, focused eyes.

"I mean, _technically_ or…"

I shrug and tilt my head slightly to the left and she allows her eyes to stay on me for a moment before standing up to walk her bowl over to the dishwasher. I wait to speak while she runs the faucet, and in those few seconds I consider apologizing. But the second the water stops, she's speaking and there's no time.

"Where are we going to dinner tonight?" she asks, and I can tell by the way she grows louder with each word that she's walking towards me again, stopping somewhere close to the back of my chair.

"Do you not want me to answer the original question anymore?"

"Oh, no. I'm a proud whore. It's fine."

"Of course," I say, swiveling awkwardly around in my stationary chair to see her, "and I don't care where we go as long as they serve chips or bread."

She laughs, "Like, _period_ or as a starter?"

"As a starter. I like starters."

"Okay, so we'll make that the first level on the criterion pyramid. Anything else?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Cool, then that means I get to decide, right? As long as you can reach into a complimentary basket of something then you're happy?"

"Story of my life."

"Stealing my lines already," she stage-mumbles under her breath.

"That's a common phrase, Ashley. Not everything is yours."

She smiles, tapping the back of my chair once with her index finger, "Trust me, I know."

* * *

By the time Jonica comes around—and I've forgotten completely that she was even meant to drop by—I'm buried in work. Papers and manila folders cover the small desk I have set up by the living room window, and every time wind seeps in from underneath the pane, I have to catch floating documents in mid-air. I hear Ashley laugh from the couch, and I laugh too. That's how Jonica sees us together for the first time—laughing hysterically while I sit in the middle of a dangerous paper storm.

Ashley's laughter comes to an abrupt halt when she sees Jonica standing in the doorway, holding the key that I gave her in case of emergencies and remaining so still and frightening that she looks like she's auditioning for "Carrie." Apparently, she and I have different ideas of what constitutes an emergency situation.

"Oh, sorry," she says, closing the door behind her and walking hesitantly into the room with her eyes on Ashley the entire time.

"Knock, Jonica."

"I know, I know. It's just easier to come right in."

"_Knock_, Jonica," I repeat, giving her what she calls my matriarch glare.

"Spencer, I fucking heard you. Chill out, okay? I forgot."

I sigh, wondering how someone can forget how to not walk into someone's home unannounced when Ashley clears her throat and shrugs. She looks back at me for some sort of explanation of _why_.

"Oh, sorry. Ashley, this is Jonica. Jonica, Ashley," I say, giving loose-limbed gestures of introduction as they stare at one another in curiosity—well, as _Ashley_ stares at Jonica, anyway. Her eyes have surveyed her entire body before Jon even seems to register what's happened. If I wasn't sitting in conveniently clear side-view, I would've missed it myself.

"Does she even need an introduction?" Jonica asks, settling presumptuously into my recliner.

"Your friend is smart," Ashley says, turning to look at me with some sort of strange "game face" on that I don't recognize, "I vote that she doesn't need to knock on any door—ever."

"Oh, please. Your bullshit doesn't work on me. I know who you are because you've fucked everything in the city with the ability to say the word 'yes,' and your little smoldering eyes routine won't make me want to throw my panties on the floor, got it?"

I'm so shocked that I can't even speak—not that it's necessary.

"Now that I know you're the kind of girl who wears panties, Monica, I doubt I'd even try," Ashley counters with an unwavering grin, sliding down the couch until she's sitting just beside a fuming Jonica.

"Get away from me, please. I like to catch my diseases the old-fashioned way."

"I'm a clinic regular, actually. Clean as a whistle. Would you like to see?"

"Your test results?"

"Not exactly."

"How often do you get tested?" Jonica asks with obviously faux-concern.

"Once a month."

"But you fuck a different girl every night so…"

Ashley shrugs, "Fine, you wouldn't need to touch me anyway. Girls as jaded and as jealous as you seem to be, Monica, require the least amount of work."

I realize that I haven't spoken for the same reason I pause my channel-flipping on indulgent reality television for far too long on nights where I have nothing else to do. There's an awful, embarrassing part of me that wants to see where this is heading. How far they're willing to go.

Jonica laughs harshly, "Is that right, _Amber_?"

She sounds childish and desperate to slight and it only makes Ashley's intensity grow more frenetic.

"You're so used to only caring about the details of _other_ people's more satisfactory lives that all I would need to do is tell you everything I've ever done to someone else and you'd be on my hand in seconds. And since I imagine you haven't had sex in…" Ashley starts, scrunching up her face as she estimates, "let's see, a little over a year? Yeah, since I imagine you haven't had sex in about a year, I give you a few seconds before you stop remembering to forget my name."

"You're a disgusting piece of shit," Jonica says, standing up and hovering close to where Ashley sits without any indication of backing down.

"Whoa, no," I say, finally willing to flip the channel and walking over to stand between them, "this is ridiculous. You met two seconds ago and while it may be hard to believe, that's not enough time to hate each other, okay? Stop."

"I can't believe you actually _live_ with this person," Jonica says, grabbing her purse from the floor.

Ashley won't even pretend to take her seriously and throws her head back. Laughs hysterically.

I look back and forth between them both and suddenly the room is a lot smaller. Sighing loud enough for them both to hear, I walk over to open the window—forgetting about my completely vulnerable paperwork. When documents and forms immediately go flying across the floor and land in every part of the room, only Ashley moves to help retrieve them.

"Jon, we'll meet up somewhere else, okay?" I say, trying to catch a form in mid-air, "right now I just need to get all of this shit together and then we're going to dinner and—"

"Who's going to dinner?" she asks, glaring at me as I lean down to pick up a page of policies and procedures.

"Ashley and I are going to dinner."

She laughs and looks at me like I'm the lowest form of life on earth, "Seriously?"

"Jon…"

"I get it, Spencer. Call me when you remember who you can trust and who you can't."

Before I respond with the words sitting on the tip of my tongue, she's slamming the door and Ashley is looking at me with apologetic eyes.

"You have an interesting effect on women," I say as she hands me a stack of papers.

"So do you."

* * *

She buys me my first two margaritas and we sit way in the back in a booth so large that it makes me feel like I'm a kid again—stealing sips from my father's drink and twirling the umbrella in my hand like it was absolutely priceless, I would love to rest my chin on the table-top and wait to be noticed. My father would always notice me first and his smile would make me feel like the only person alive.

"If you're still able to get lost in your thoughts, the drinks aren't strong enough," Ashley says, looking at me through slightly hooded eyes.

She's a lightweight, which surprises me. I picture girls like her able to consume _everything_ they want. Completely lose the definition of moderation in a jumble of affirmations and new wants. But she was slurring a bit after the first margarita and now I can tell simply by the open expression on her face that she's arrived on the next floor and soon it'll be time to stop ascending.

"Trust me, they're strong enough."

"Yeah, okay," she says, watching me find a more comfortable sitting position in the booth while her face grows more serious, "so I'm sorry about Monica."

"You mean Jonica?"

She smirks at me and leans backward, "No, seriously, though. Did she do that? Did she name herself that or what?"

I laugh, dipping a tortilla chip into the bowl of salsa that Ashley hadn't touched, "Her parents thought they were being creative."

"Wow. Well, anyway, um…I'm sorry. And not because of what I said but because she's your friend and I had no right to say what I said to someone who's your friend.

I shrug, "I appreciate it, but really? She was asking for it. Jonica is…Jonica is a bit aggressive at times and yeah, she knows that_ I_ know her and I know where it's coming from, but not everyone does. So I think she needs to learn her boundaries, you know? She needs to have some limitations on what she's willing to say and who she's willing to say it to."

"How did you two meet anyway?"

"We met at work."

"You work with her?"

"Yeah, I think I told you that, though. I'm almost sure I told you."

"Do I look like I'm in a state to try to remember…_anything_?" she asks, throwing her hands up and reaching for the rest of her drink, "like, I have no idea."

"Speaking of friends, when do I get to meet the infamous Kat?"

"Five minutes after hell freezes over."

I can't help but frown and sit back further in the booth.

"No, not because of _you_," she explains, leaning forward again, "it's just that Kat is Jonica-like in the fact that she's one of those people who you really have to get to know in order not to be offended by almost everything that comes out of her mouth. I mean, she's just…a lot, sometimes. And I love her and she's my best friend, but I don't just thrust her upon people without adequate warning."

"Fair enough."

"She's…"

"How long have you known or like, where did you meet or whatever?"

She pauses, making a small humming sound from deep within her throat, "Um…"

"You don't remember that either?" I laugh, kicking her gently underneath the table.

"No, I definitely remember. I just…I guess I have something I need to tell you."

I feel my heart drop into my lap, because those words have brought me a lot of grief in the past. Ruined entire years and still find a way to wake me up some nights in a state of panic and repeat themselves in my ear in the voices of people I used to know.

"What?" I ask impatiently, watching her eyes grow concerned as she notices how quickly my tone has changed.

"Where did you go to high school?" she asks, quietly.

I shake my head and avert my eyes, watching a waitress almost drop an entire tray of drinks but catch herself at the last minute. The entire table of men cheer and she laughs and bows.

"Okay, that's not what I meant to say," Ashley fumbles, sitting up straight as though it might help, "I meant to just say that you and I…we…we went to high school together and um…I knew that. Like, I've known that the whole time."

I watch her nervously play with the straw that's floating in her water glass and I'm not sure whether to be amazed or annoyed that she hadn't told me before we found ourselves sitting underneath a gigantic piñata and waiting for enchiladas.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah," she says with a nod.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I don't know. I guess I thought it was all a bit unbelievable."

"How do you even know?" I ask, almost smiling now because it's all so strange and sudden that I have no choice but to find amusement in the shock.

"How do I know?"

"Yeah, _how_ do you know? And why wouldn't I know you? I think I'd remember."

"Well, I look different. And uh…you were a grade above me, so maybe that's why. I don't know."

"_Wow_."

"Uh-huh."

"This is crazy."

"And Kat, too. She was my best friend in high school so we were together all the time."

"I see."

"Anyway, I didn't know how to work it in without…I just didn't know how to work it in."

"You know what sucks? I have my yearbook at my grandparents' house in L.A. We could've taken a stroll down memory lane," I say, reaching for another chip, "do you have yours?"

"No," she says, looking uncomfortable.

"Wait, wait, wait. But how did you recognize _me_?"

She shakes her head, laughing a little.

"You just have one of those faces."

I start to reply but the loud orchestra of crashing plates and silverware startles me out of the moment. The waitress from earlier isn't as lucky on her way out with the food and now the table is sitting in frustrated silence as she quickly moves to gather the broken dishes. I can hear her flurry of apologies and promises to get more food out as quickly as she can over the music, but it's too late. A few moments earlier she had been the hero and now it was over. That's how quickly perception can change.

When I look back at Ashley, she's already staring at me and it instantly feels familiar even though I know it's simply my mind wanting to run with the information she had just imparted upon me.

"She was the hero a second ago," I say, nodding my head at the waitress.

"I know, I saw."

"And now she totally hates herself."

"Yeah, but," Ashley says, smiling sadly, "she hated herself when she was the hero too."


	7. A Very Important Date

**Thanks for reading and commenting, you guys. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 7: A Very Important Date

* * *

I sit on the edge of Kat's bed, both anxious and terrified to return to my apartment, walk through the narrow hallway with the teetering bookcases and find her sleeping alone. Or worse…

She hadn't changed in the past five days. She looked at me exactly the same as before—slightly amused and a bit curious—and invited me along when she'd walk the four quick blocks to the closest convenience store and browse the aisles (like it was her first time inside) as if nothing had even happened. Like she knew nothing more than she had a week ago.

Ultimately, she would settle on Pringles and a bottle of obscurely branded lemonade and I would choose the Vitamin Water flavor I had been the longest without and while we stood in line she never looked at me any differently—not once.

This is how I knew for certain that after all this time, she honestly had never noticed. The times I was almost sure our eyes had met as we passed in the hall like airplane lights in a dark sky—parallel and careful— or the one night when our families had the same idea about dinner and I sat several feet away from her at the very same restaurant and I could barely maneuver my fork without fearing she'd finally notice me and I would be mid-bite and awkward when it happened.

But, no. These had all been the best version of things that never completely crossed into reality as I knew it, concocted in my bed late at night when I couldn't sleep before dedicating the proper amount of time to thinking about her.

There was more Robin, of course. Two nights she had sat in chairs and rocked gently back and forth and leaned against the refrigerator while Spencer rambled on and on about all the work she had neglected to do and "now" felt guilty about. I would have to hear the entire thing again after Robin left, but I would nod in all the right parts anyway. When she was done, she would rustle my hair like some sort of makeshift big sister and retire to her room for the night.

And there's nothing wrong with Robin, really. Nothing tangible, at least. She always says hello and laughs at my mumbled commentary of Spencer's easily-translated facial expressions with a remarkable amount of sincerity. One morning out of the five, she left a bag of Spencer's favorite bagels on the doormat without even coming inside. There was a knock and when I finally climbed out of bed and opened the door, she was gone. Inside the bag was a note for the sleepy blonde (one that made her smile quite widely) and enough bagels for the both of us.

"I've been instructed to share with you," she said in her raspy morning voice, walking into the kitchen to retrieve two plates, two glasses, and the entire carton of orange juice.

"Sharing is caring…until you're old enough to realize that isn't always true," I called after her.

She smiled quite widely at that as well and poured me a glass of juice.

"Oh, good. I love this game. I think the way you win is to bore the absolute living fuck out of your best friend and force her to wonder how much longer the divine spirit sees fit that she should have to endure life on the mother planet with the adorable humans and their deep thoughts and theme parks and shit. You always win somehow."

Kat lets out a huge sigh and glares at me through wide, dramatic eyes and I begin to remember where I am again—transported back into the present with a jarring welcome.

"Sorry, I'm just really freaked out about this Spencer thing."

"Which part, Ashley? The part where you finally told her that we all went to high school together while conveniently neglecting to mention that minor little detail about how you were obsessed with her to a frightening, generally unhealthy degree for years? Or the fact that you're still in love with her and probably thinking of an entire book's worth of methods for ending the life of this Robin character that don't end with you in an orange jumpsuit and learning the fine art of high quantity bread baking or how to ferment alcohol in a trash bag?"

"I don't even know what you just said. But for the record, I'm talking about the fact that I told her almost a week ago that we went to high school together and…"

"Who cares?"

"What?"

"Like, why does it even matter if she knows?"

"Because if you'll recall, I confessed my love for her in a yearbook that she still manages to have."

"I thought it was at her grandparent's house or whatever," Kat says, sighing deeply, "I mean, don't they have that shit?"

"Yeah, it's at her grandparents, but...but it's not like L.A. is that far away, you know?"

"Old people have it, Ashley. That means that it's probably being used to prop up a broken statue of Paul Revere or something. You'll be fine."

I look across the room, watching as Ottoman saunters in and his belly swings underneath him horizontally with every step of his four legs. When I turn to face Kat again, she's watching too. Her eyes have softened considerably, and maybe this is the right time to say it aloud.

"Oh, and there's something else I have to tell you."

"I feel like Spencer all of a sudden."

"What?" I ask, so worried about what I have to say that I can't even comprehend anyone else's words.

"Never mind," she says, collapsing backwards onto her bed.

We're silent for a moment, but she stares at me with a smile that makes her look almost exactly like Ottoman and shakes her head.

"What?" I say again.

"Nothing. Seriously, just tell me."

I bite my bottom lip. Consider keeping it to myself so that—for once—something can be mine, alone. There would be no one else's feelings intermingling with my thoughts. Finally, it could all be separate and foreign opinions wouldn't find me in moments of doubt.

"I have a date tonight."

"Just the one?"

"No, no. It's like an _actual_ date."

"What the fuck are you even talking about right now?" Kat asks, pulling one of her more judgmental expressions out the arsenal and aiming it at me.

"I have a date—with Tara."

"With _Tara_?"

"Yeah, with Tara."

Kat sits up straight, "Okay, so this is the same Tara that you met that one time and didn't sleep with because you thought she was kind of nice and then you exchanged numbers and talked maybe twice before the whole thing just kind of faded away in about a month—sort of like a Glade Plug-In or a rash you're not too sure about but just assume is normal—and sometimes you two would drunk text each other but nothing too scandalous because like I said, she's nice?"

"Yes, that would be the one. Uh-huh."

"Your brilliance astounds me, Ashley."

"What's the problem?" I ask, even though I'm sure I can guess. I try flashing a lighthearted smile and nudging her knee with my own, but it's no use. She's Kat—and Kat always makes her point.

"So because Spencer could potentially be happy with Robin, you have to go out and find a bride as quickly as you possibly can? I mean, really? Give me a fucking break."

"Not a bride."

"You know exactly what the fuck I mean."

"Look, Kat. This has nothing to do with Spencer and Robin, okay? This is me…"

"…being a complete idiot. I'm glad you realize that."

"I was actually talking just now, thanks. This is me trying something different. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work. But like, I'm _allowed_ to go out on dates if I want to. That's what everyone does. They go out with people."

"I don't."

"That's because you're strange and unstable and you pursue no romantic leads."

"You can't possibly blame it on that."

"I need you to just be supportive for five seconds, please," I say, burying my face in my hands, "it's just something I have to try. I have to see if dating someone could happen for me right now."

"Fine, but you're ignoring the _why_. And I hate when people ignore the _why_."

"I'm ignoring the 'why?'"

"Yeah, you're not going to take two seconds to think about why it is that you feel this need to try dating all of a sudden. You're just going to try it—which doesn't even make sense unless you plan on figuring out _why_ you feel the need to do it. It makes the entire thing completely pointless."

"You think it's because of Spencer, of course."

"Of course I do, and _of course_ it is."

"Maybe it is, but not for the reason you think."

"Enlighten me, Morris."

I frown at her, "Stop it."

"Sorry, it'll never happen again. Now, enlighten me."

"Seeing Spencer and Robin has been hard. But not because I'm still into Spencer."

"Uh-huh…"

"I just think that maybe seeing them with each other has made me want something a little more…consistent. Constant? I don't know the right word, but it makes me want to try to get to know someone else in a way that doesn't just involve fucking them and showing them the door five seconds later, you know? Maybe I want someone who actually _knows_ me, or at least something _about_ me in my life instead of this endless stream of nameless women."

"So you want someone to leave you bagels at your front door?"

"How do you know about that?"

"You texted me that morning and told me because you're insane and self-important."

"Oh."

"Apparently it made a big impression on you."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Is Tara the bagel-leaving type?"

"We'll see."

* * *

As I dress for my date, I can feel (and hear) Spencer's presence in the living room. I smile as she clears her throat for the millionth time—which she does whenever she's trying to make herself concentrate on the ever-present stack of papers in front of her. I've heard her chair scrape over the wood floor countless times as she's gotten up to raid the fridge and walk back and forth to her room and look out of the window at the nothingness (steady glowing street light, woman with a small dog, car speeding by leaving the hum of their car radio in the air like lingering smoke) below and whatever else. Whatever the else is. I can't know.

The fabric of a short skirt I haven't worn in several months feels awkward against my legs, so it makes no sense that I move them purposely to feel the awkwardness over and over again. But then I realize that I'm trying to distract myself, too. I'm nervous. When I'm nervous, I want to be bothered by _everything_. If everything is bothering me at once then I can fool my nerves into thinking they're a mere bi-product of my sudden annoyance at countless things instead of just the one. The original culprit. And my nerves feel so unimportant and unnecessary in all the bothering chaos that they disappear until they can return and be the center of my attention.

This time, though…this time it's not working.

There's a knock on my door and my heart lurches forward in my chest, making it hard to speak, "Yeah?"

My voice is high-pitched and strangled and I realize what it must sound like is occurring behind the closed door.

"Oh, sorry," Spencer says, sounding concerned and a bit embarrassed, confirming my realization, "are you busy?"

"No, you just scared me. Open it."

She does so, but slowly. She peeks her head around the edge of the door, her eyes sitting sideways between her hands as she leans against it. I wave her in.

"What are you doing?" she asks, walking into the room with a grin.

"Getting ready to go out. What are _you_ doing?"

She ignores the question, "On the prowl tonight or what? It's been awhile."

"It hasn't been that long," I answer defensively—because yes, yes it has.

"Maybe you're just being super covert about it these days."

"What are you doing out there?"

"Working."

"Yeah," I say with a laugh, "that's _exactly_ what it sounds like is going on."

"Whatever, I can't help it. I'm distracted."

"Why?"

"Weird stuff with Robin. It doesn't matter."

"Weird how?"

She shrugs, sitting down on the right corner of my bed with a sigh, "Yeah, I don't know."

"You can talk about it if you want," I reply, resting my hand on the top of her head until she laughs a little and grabs it—squeezing hard before she gives it back to me and shakes her hair back into place.

"No, like I'm not even kidding. I don't know what it is or how to explain it."

"Well, when you figure it out…"

"Obviously," she says, stretching her arms over her head and yawning, "so, where are you going?"

"Actually, I'm going to Chez Panisse. I had to con the person over the phone into getting reservations. Ridiculous. I'm not even going to tell you how."

"That's sort of an interesting place to pick up women, isn't it?" she asks with a curious smirk.

"It _would_ be, yes. But that's not why I'm going."

"Dinner with Kat or what's her name? The other one…starts with a 'K' too, right?"

I take a seat on the other side of the bed so I can slide my boots on and she watches me as I do it, "Kyla…and no. I have a date with someone I met awhile ago."

She looks surprised, "A real date?"

"A real date."

"Whoa…_wow_."

"I know. It's weird, huh?"

"For you, yeah. I didn't know you did dates."

"I wasn't, but now I'm giving one a try."

"Where do you know her from?"

"We met a few months ago at a party and I never followed up with her the way I should have because, you know…"

"You weren't doing that then. Following up, I mean."

"Right, but we've stayed in contact enough for me to have another chance. So that's what this is."

"Another chance?"

"Another chance, uh-huh," I say with a nod.

She's looking at me through eyes that are even more observant than usual and her mouth forms a smile that shouldn't even technically count as one because it's so _not_ meant that way. Simply there to complete her look of thoughtfulness.

"What time is it?" she asks after a moment or two.

"Right now?"

"No, what time is the date?"

"Oh, I should probably leave, actually."

"Well," she says, standing up and making her way toward the door, "good luck."

I look up to respond, but she's already walking down the hall with heavy footsteps and I wave at her pointlessly instead.

* * *

I wait for Tara outside, leaning against a tree and watching groups of people stroll by and laugh too loudly and listen too little. It's already dark out, and the wind is whipping my hair into my face, but I don't turn the opposite way. It's waking me up. Making me think of things to say when she arrives and it's time to explain why this night is only happening now instead of months ago after we had spent the night nodding and smiling at each other like old friends. She had kissed my cheek before leaving and I thought, "No, not just friends at all…"

But I had been a coward because I didn't want to change again. I didn't want to erase all that I had worked so hard to preserve just to spend my time wanting and needing all like I had so desperately before.

"Hi," she says, walking up behind me and grabbing my hand, "sorry I'm late."

I recover from the shock as quickly as I can, "I'm months late, so I think I'll go easy on you for the five minutes."

* * *

The tables are intimate and our knees touch more than once as she updates me on the months I've missed. She doesn't seem bitter, and I remember that I had liked that about her immediately—she was the type to understand instead of dismiss.

"What about you? Still entertaining bed warmers?" she asks with a smile before taking a sip from her water glass.

"I'm living in a new place now and I feel a little weird bringing my souvenirs back home with me for her to see."

"Who's _her_?"

I shake my head, realizing that I had forgotten to even explain about Spencer, "Sorry, my new roommate."

"Since when do you care?"

"When I moved into this place I promised her there wouldn't be a lot of women coming in and out of the apartment."

"She had heard about you then? Or she knew you before?"

"She had heard. But you know what? She actually…we went to high school together too. But she doesn't remember me, so…"

"That's kind of strange, huh?"

"A bit, yeah."

"But you remembered her?"

"Uh-huh."

"Then you must have been a very different Ashley Davies in high school. Because now it's the opposite, mostly."

"Quite a bit different," I admit, before forgetting that admitting to my former persona isn't something I've allowed myself to do lately.

"Explains you."

"_Explains me_?"

"It explains you a little more, right? Why you're the way you are now?"

"How am I now?"

"Now, you're the type of Ashley who doesn't call a girl she likes because she'd rather fuck around and never have to let people in."

"And you know me so well…"

"All I know is that you don't call, and that you liked me so there's no reason you shouldn't."

"Fair enough."

"But if you're willing to respect this promise you made to your roommate then maybe you're letting her in."

"It's not like that. Spencer and I are just friends and yeah, I respect her. I can respect someone and not need it to be more than a friendship, right?"

"I wasn't suggesting that it was 'like that.' I was just saying that maybe you're letting people in more these days. After all, here we are breaking bread," she says, taking a bite of her sourdough for emphasis, "it's good, Ashley. I like it. Maybe this Spencer could be what you needed all along."

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod once, "Let's get some more bread."

* * *

We end with just a kiss, which she gives me after I've walked her to her car. It's short, but nice and she buries her face in my neck for just a moment and inhales before sliding into the driver's seat and making me swear that I'll call her soon. I tell her yes—meaning it—and she shuts her door with a wide smile that makes me panic immediately.

There's the part of me that says, "don't bring her into your mess," but I ignore it and the panic subsides eventually. It's just a memory by the time I open the front door of the apartment and find Spencer and Robin making out on the couch, illuminated by the mild light of burning candles.

They don't notice me for several seconds and I want to turn away while I still can, but I don't. Instead, I become transfixed on the way Spencer keeps her right hand on her heart while she leans into Robin and it seems like some sort of precaution. I'm still watching that hand when she pulls back and my eyes travel up and into hers.

"Shit!" she yells, relocating to the end of the couch and Robin turns around to find out why.

"I'm sorry, I just…"

"No, no, no! _I'm_ sorry. I thought you'd be out all night."

"It was just a date."

"I know, but…_you know_," she says, standing up and glancing back and forth between me and Robin as though she's suddenly very lost, "anyway, sorry. We'll be in my room now, so…yeah."

She grabs Robin's hand—who remains silent and clearly confused throughout the entire exchange—and practically drags her down the hall.

I'm frozen in the doorway for a moment before moving to blow out the candles. On the last one, I hear my phone chime in my purse and I fumble for it as the room is shrouded in darkness.

I pause and take a deep breath, sorting myself out before I slide my phone lock to the right and press "view."

It's a text from Tara, block lettering against the bright light of the screen: Soon, Ashley. I had a perfect time.

The room is once again aglow.


	8. Full Moon

_Sorry for the wait, you guys. STRESSFUL last week! I appreciate all the feedback and support and I hope you enjoy this long overdue chapter. Thanks! :)_

* * *

**Chapter 8: Full Moon**

It's not that I mind this new _thing_, this new _person_ of hers. I really don't. And she smiles more—which is nice. She smiles without me prodding her and she smiles in the morning when she thinks she's alone in the living room and doing her sun salutations with the window wide open (it's growing on me) and she smiles when she looks at me, though lately it feels as if she's actually seeing someone else, and I'm not sure why.

I don't mind.

Ashley and I are friends and Tara is quite lovely. She wears long, patterned skirts with leather jackets and boots and her perfume is sweet and presumptuous. She runs her long fingers needlessly through her hair when she talks and she likes to place her hand on Ashley's shoulder and look at me with a knowing smile—like Ashley is our child and we're the only ones capable of knowing her honestly. She folds her legs neatly underneath herself when she's sitting on our couch and after she leaves, I find long strands of reddish-brown hair on the cushions—and once, wrapped around the base of my white coffee mug in a cabinet.

Tara likes her. Ashley smiles without me. When they're together they make sense and they laugh.

I don't mind that.

Robin doesn't laugh often. Instead, she shifts backwards so she can see me entirely and makes a small noise (a surprised one, as if she's expecting something else from me, entirely) and nods appreciatively. She purposely reminds me who the adult is. She takes up a great deal of space when she sits.

Today, the corners of Ashley's mouth have remained mostly neutral. She sighs so deeply that it's as if she's sighing for _everyone_ and for a moment I'm no longer sure what that means I should do. I don't remember how I used to fix it before Tara offered up her long-term solutions and lost strands of reminders.

For years, I've felt as though empathy has abandoned me. Like it's no longer a state whose borders I can cross and I wander close to the edge as if the rules will change suddenly. I stare at people and wait for the overwhelming desire to offer a part of myself in order to mend a part of someone else.

It never comes.

But sometimes when I stare at Ashley (and she stares elsewhere,) I see something slithering beneath her surface and rippling her skin—like an alien body snatcher has hidden inside and is waiting until I'm close enough so she can eat me alive without a fair fight. I don't know what that is. I know how ridiculous it sounds but I don't know what it _is_. All I know is that it makes me want to fold her inside out and breathe life into her before the takeover is irreversible and that's the closest to offering up a fraction of myself I've been since everyone left.

I don't know.

Ashley's skin stays still today. Her body seems to belong only to her. Maybe it's been that way since Tara started ringing our doorbell. I'm not sure. But it's good—good to see her intact even if her silence seems to indicate that something isn't aligning.

"Ash?" I whisper, not wanting to jar her from the quiet.

"Yeah?"

She looks at me— wearing strangely studious glasses that are sliding lower and lower on her nose—and I blush. I have no idea why, but I know she's noticed when she tilts her head slightly and her expression shifts from "what is it?" to "why?"

"You don't seem like you're having a good day."

She smiles a small, fleeting smile and shrugs, "The studio did some weird shit with my schedule this week and so now I have all this stuff I have to rearrange. It's not a big deal, but it's annoying."

"Exactly."

"What do you mean, 'exactly?'"

"Oh, nothing. I just mean that I feel that way about a lot of stuff right now."

"Well," she says, offering me another smile, "I'm sure things will get better with Robin."

"Why are you assuming this is about her?"

"Because it's what you do, Spence—you talk about Robin."

"Don't act like I'm _that_ girl, because we both know that I'm not."

"Maybe I'm not sure who _that_ girl is then."

"That girl who's always talking about her girlfriend and all the shit that's going on with them until everyone she knows is completely sick of hearing about it."

"Then I have some bad news for you," she says, before erupting into a deep fit of laughter, "you're totally that girl times a billion."

"Oh, shut up. I can't help that I don't have a huge social circle."

"Actually, I think that's one of those things that you _can_ help."

She's still laughing, and it's just a bit contagious. It always is, because it's loud and rare and sincere. It seems so strange coming out of the mouth of this "cool," calculated person that when it makes an appearance I always have to rush my own laughter out to greet it before it leaves again.

"Jeez…maybe you're right. Maybe I talk about it too much."

"It's fine. I was kidding," she says, her face suddenly more serious.

"No, no. Really, Ashley, if it's ever too much you have to tell me. And I think maybe it's because you're the person I see the most and you know her and so…yeah, I'm just—"

"Spencer, I've told you before—it's fine, okay?"

"The thing is, you can talk about Tara if you want. Like, if you ever need to talk about what's going on between you two, I'm more than willing to return the favor and hear you out," I say, drumming my fingers on the table, "and you know what? We're actually doing a dinner thing tonight. You should invite her. It'll be really fun for us to all hang out, you know?"

"Is a 'dinner thing' the same as regular dinner or is it something more exotic?"

"We're cooking dinner at home. That's it. And if you'd like to reserve chairs for tonight then you better hurry up and let me know so I can write your names down."

"You're ridiculous," she says, shaking her head and watching my fingers as they move across the wooden surface.

"Why? Because I'm inviting you to have dinner with me and Robin?"

"For all sorts of reasons. But yeah, that's one of them."

"Whatever," I say, pushing my chair back and walking over to grab the bag of tortilla chips that lives atop the refrigerator, "I think it'll be fun."

"So you said. Would we have to cook anything?"

"What?" I ask from the kitchen, her words drowned in the obnoxious noise of disturbed plastic as I reach into the bag for a chip.

She clears her throat, "I _said_, would we have to cook anything?"

"Of course not. Robin loves to cook so she does everything. Like, she _wants_ to do everything, so…"

She looks at me through the limited space between the bottom of the cabinets and the top of the bar and smiles, "Okay, then maybe we're down to do dinner."

"Uh-uh. This kitchen only accepts 'yes' and 'no' answers."

"Fine, then _yes_, I'll invite Tara over for this almost certainly awkward and uncomfortable dinner. Happy?"

"Thrilled."

" I should probably invite Kat," She says quietly. Casually.

I've been asking to be introduced to the illusive Kat for quite awhile, but Ashley has avoided it at all costs. She tells the stories and I hear her voice over the phone, but no face. No actual, physical presence.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, I mean…maybe if she's in a crowd, no one will hear all the ridiculous shit she's bound to say."

I laugh, but I've been so confused by this friendship of Ashley's that all of the questions I've already asked want to compound themselves into a large demand of _how_ these two have managed to revolve for so long if they're so frightened of one another—or at least, that's the way it seems without meeting the missing party to the background. Perhaps Ashley is the fearful one and Kat is the smug provider of all that scares her. Either way…

"Good. I'm excited to meet her."

She shakes her head in response, "Right."

"I am! You know I am."

"I didn't say you weren't."

"No, but your tone implied it."

"I just hope she's on her best behavior."

* * *

Hours later, I'm walking the thin line between amusement and absolute terror wearing nothing but socks with a blindfold made of gauze. I should have seen it coming, but I didn't and it's slippery, but almost comforting. This awkward stew of people sporadically placed in the apartment are each displays in an art museum with a strange sense of humor and my eyes can't actually decide where to focus. Usually—and it's only because Robin is still standing over the stove and eyeing what is soon to be dinner so critically that it's almost laughable—they find Ashley. Hers seem to have the same idea and when ours meet, we smile and shrug like it's something that's been thrust upon us instead of something we chose to make happen.

The most surprising element is a smirking Jonica, sitting in the corner with her third beer in hand. Earlier, I had made the mistake of mentioning what my night would consist of and who would be a part of it and she invited herself into the chaos without giving me an adequate moment to explain why the idea was so incredibly terrible and why her presence would be so unnecessary. I was going to hide it behind sentences like, "Are you sure you want to be around Ashley that long?" and "Don't you have other plans?" but my lips had parted and so had she.

"Do you have any celery here?"

I let out a small yelp that's mostly hidden by the music coming from Ashley's huge speakers and I turn to see the short, pale and dark-haired enigma that had been introduced to me as "Kat."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I'm craving celery, so I have to get it somehow. It would be easier if you just had some already."

"You know what? That's more something that Ashley would have."

"Hmm…when's your girlfriend going to stop stirring the goddamn food and let us eat it? Are we waiting for a fucking apocalypse or something, because if we are then we could be waiting for weeks, huh?"

"So, did we have any classes in high school together or anything?" I ask, shooting a quick look at Ashley.

"Gym."

"Oh yeah? Then it's weird that I don't remember you."

"Look at me, Spencer Carlin. Do I look like I would've been a standout in _gym_? Do I look like I'd have some sort of…"

"How's it going over here?" Ashley asks, sliding up and wrapping an arm around Kat's waist.

I search the room for Tara and find her sitting across from Jonica. They're laughing about something—Jonica's laugh echoing off of the walls like it always does when she's been drinking and feels even more entitled to herself than usual.

"I'm fucking starving like a motherfucker and homegirl's girlfriend is withholding the eats, so…"

"Kat, for the love of God," Ashley sighs, bringing two fingers up to massage her temple, "just _be_ for a minute, alright? Just be okay."

Kat fixes a mysterious face on Ashley and smiles, "Should I get myself to a treadmill or a Bikram class, friend? Is that how one becomes 'okay?'"

"Whatever it takes, I guess."

Kat nods, "Oh, okay. Okay, yeah. Seems to be a tried and true method of finding one's inner peace. Excuse me while I go motivate the chef with some encouraging words."

We both watch as she walks over to Robin, but her words are hidden underneath all the sounds. I do, however, notice that Robin's expression quickly changes into something I can't read.

"What the hell were we thinking?" I ask, needing Ashley's smile to remind me to breathe.

"That's an excellent question."

"Well, it's not your fault, is it? You tried to warn me."

"You couldn't have known."

We're quiet for a moment, watching the scene from what feels like a million miles away, but shouldn't.

"Jonica's here."

"Yeah, I noticed that," she replies with a confused grin, "what the fuck is that about? When did you even invite her?"

"As if she waits to be invited…"

"We have weird friends."

"So we do."

"Let's just watch bad reality television marathons tomorrow and lounge around like…"

"_Yes_."

"Yeah," she confirms, nodding like a kid that's been promised the moon.

Before I can say anything else, Robin walks around Kat and yells, "Fine, everybody! Dinner's ready."

"Kat, what the fuck did you say?" Ashley whines.

"Robin finally found inner peace with dinner," Kat replies with her eyes closed and her hands meeting at her heart like she's preparing for a yoga pose, "now, which chair is mine?"

* * *

For awhile we eat in near silence. There's the occasional clattering of serving spoons and the one-pitch chime of forks against ceramic plates. When I concentrate hard I can almost make out Jonica's inner-monologue as she stares at Ashley with narrowed, beer-hazed eyes. Kat watches her as she watches Ashley, and I watch them all and wait.

"Food's amazing, Robin. Seriously," Tara says, smiling widely from the end of the table.

Ashley raises her fork in a one-person toast, "I agree. Nice work."

Robin smiles a tight-lipped smile and nods appreciatively.

"You must be used to cooking for people like this, huh?" Ashley continues, and I can't help but notice the fire in her eyes as she leans in, "or girlfriends, I guess. Did you cook for a lot of your other girlfriends or just Spencer?"

"I've cooked for girlfriends in the past, yes. I like cooking. I find that it relaxes me…relieves stress."

"Too bad it's so stressful _waiting_ for you to a finish a meal. I would say that it's fucking counter-productive but that's not the right word," Kat says, popping a candied raisin into her mouth.

I half-expect Ashley to quickly excuse her friend, but she doesn't this time. Her gaze is still fixed on Robin. The fire still burns. And I would extinguish it, but where is it coming from? I can't extinguish a fire without knowing its source.

"I'm sorry, Kat," Robin says, smugly, taking a long sip from her wine glass, "I guess it's one of the disadvantages of being such a perfectionist."

"Ashley, I'm surprised your taste buds are still _functioning_ considering all of the hazardous environments they've been exposed to or whatever the fuck ever," Jonica says, slurring slightly.

"_Whatever the fuck ever_," Ashley repeats, "God, you're brilliant. What's it like being so brilliant, Jon? Lonely, right?"

Tara reaches for her hand then, rubbing circles into her palm in some sort of effort to calm her down. But it's as if Ashley can't even feel it. Her entire posture changes as she watches Jonica carelessly fuel the fire.

"A-a-and what's this bullshit line of questioning that you're doing with Robin? As if you're fucking equipped to question anyone about anything. Please."

"Jonica, you don't know what you're talking about, okay? Just drink another security blanket and shut the fuck up."

Kat's eyes dart back and forth between the two, but the rest of her appears bored. Tara is frowning and the circles have stopped. Instead, she clutches the stem of her wine glass and looks completely helpless. Robin (more than anyone) seems totally at ease with the dysfunctional circumstances and barely hesitates to finish her dinner.

And then there's me. Putting out small fires is practically the point of my entire job. I could handle this, despite the intensity of the opponents, I could stop the spread. Isolate and extinguish regardless of the origin.

"You're ruining dinner. Please don't," I say to Ashley, shaking my head, "just ignore her, Ash. She's drunk and she's acting stupid."

"Are you really taking her side right now? Wow, that's fucking priceless, dude. Spencer, you're a real goddamn piece of work," Jonica practically spits at me. Her face is contorted into something so ugly and surprising that for a second, I feel like I'm seeing her for the very first time.

I pretend I'm incapable of hearing her, caring what she thinks of me. And I remain focused on Ashley, "You're better than arguing with people about who you are. She doesn't even know you, right? She doesn't even _know_ you. She doesn't get it, but I do. I see you and she doesn't even fucking matter, so eat your curry and remember who knows what the fuck they're talking about and who doesn't."

Ashley nods, looks at me like she's been waiting for me to say it all night. Longer, even.

"This meal really could've been helped by some celery, am I right?" Kat says, shaking her index finger at Robin before turning to Jonica, "oh, and also, I don't know who you are but I need you to know something, elfish kid."

"Are you talking to me?" Jonica asks, and I want to laugh because no one should ever presume a person who says, "elfish kid," is referring to them.

"Yeah, I wanted you to know that you fucked Morris over here about two years ago at some club that used to be in the Mission. She may forget a face or ninety, but I never forget. Never."

"What the hell are you talking about right now, Wednesday Addams?"

"_Clever_, but I'm talking about the time Morris offered to go down on you in the bathroom of a club that has since closed and you accepted that invitation with open legs and a fucking hooray. _That's_ what I'm talking about. And I know…like, I know you have to deny it because you just _do_, but try to be a little less Psych 101 about this whole thing and I think your shit will go a whole lot smoother."

I pick my jaw up off the floor just in time to see Jonica's face turn bright red. It's how I know that Kat's not joking, and I'm so flabbergasted that I let out a short (but loud) laugh.

"This is bullshit and I'm leaving. Goodnight," Jonica says, pushing her chair back with such force that it topples over on its side.

I should say something—anything, really—but I can't. All I can do is watch her walk out and slam the door behind her and try to make out the stream of muttered profanity that follows her like the wind.

"Wow," Tara whispers, staring at her plate.

"You really live up to your reputation, Ashley. Jeez," Robin says, her smile marked strangely with pride.

But Ashley doesn't respond because she's still looking at me, her gaze so intense that it sends chills through my body. It's the first time that I realize the familiarity I feel under her gentle (yet utterly focused) scrutiny isn't just my imagination. It's a memory—several memories. I can almost picture the face that accompanied the gaze, but it's just out of reach.

"I've always liked to put the 'diss' back in 'dysfunctional,'" Kat says, nodding seriously.

I feel _several_ pairs of eyes on me then. Kat and Tara have been watching us—Tara with a soft frown and Kat with an aware grin and I realize that someone needs to start talking.

"Well, that was a surprising turn of events," I say, grabbing Robin's free hand underneath the table.

"Really?" Kat responds, helping herself to seconds, "that was pretty much exactly how I saw this night going."

"Did I really sleep with her? Like, _actually_ sleep with her, Kat?"

The pale brunette nods at Ashley and there's such amazing intimacy in the moment that I realize exactly the _way_ in which they're friends.

Tara still hasn't spoken. For the last few seconds, she's been eating in silence like a child who's just been yelled at to swallow her peas. She's out of her element with Ashley Davies. She wants a history with her that she'll never last long enough to create, and to erase the real one—the one that features nights Ashley doesn't remember with women she doesn't remember. I discover (as my heartbeat quickens) that this makes me incredibly angry. Tense and defensive.

I'm well aware of how it feels to have a past that can destroy the relationships of the present. I know what it's like for someone to look at you and see an impossible challenge and start something they can't finish.

"Why can't things ever just be easy, huh?" Robin asks with a laugh.

I want to slap her.


	9. And Mouse

_So here it is, ya'll-Chapter 9. It's definitely one of my favorites and there's a reason. Watch our for the perspective here in the beginning. It's important! Thanks so much for your feedback._

* * *

**Chapter 9: And Mouse**

I trust the pussy that sits on the floor, casually licking his paw—a humanly impossible brand of consistent apathy that I envy like mad—and purring softly. He's trustworthy because he's happy with what he has: a losing battle with feline obesity, the freedom to roam my apartment in search of optimal napping locations, a catnip toy with feathers—because he's shown signs of being a gay man and I support him in that, and my undying, unwavering devotion and affection.

Occasionally, I trust the pussy that's probably right in the middle of some yoga pose with a roomful of hopeful, middle-aged divorcees and self-proclaimed cougars in brightly-colored outfits and layered haircuts. She's trustworthy because she's so obvious and it's almost as adorable as Ottoman sometimes—except nothing is and I can't help that.

I've known Ashley in this night of one-acts we call life through so many "costume changes" and "script re-writes" that I can predict even her most complex actions and I mouth the lines right along with her during all of the subtle _re_actions. I know what her hand gestures mean and when she uses them, I know when she's decided to swallow what she means and opt for what she knows, and I know when she's "in character" and when her various incarnations have accidentally worn the same outfit and she struggles to tell them apart.

I've always found it quite amazing that when these little truths have become overwhelmingly evident in a friendship—when you seem to know every single part of the other person—then you've earned a status of _best friend_. You've earned your right to go see Sarah Jessica Parker movies despite knowing better and talking incessantly about weight gain and fine lines and commercials and strappy heels and the constant need to pick up more dryer sheets (I always fucking need dryer sheets, for fuck's sake.) _But_, take all that awareness and knowing and status and give it the title of _girlfriend_ or the ever-popular and confusing, _partner_, and a break-up is looming in the distance and you're speeding towards it in a recalled Prius because…_because_ in the human interaction quilt, the patches are literally covering something up and the seams are lies and romantic relationships frolic in the chaos like innocent children in a field of land mines.

But friendships are something else, I guess. The warmth the quilt provides regardless of what it's made of, maybe. I wouldn't know, because even though I prefer winter to summer, most of the time I find quilts so warm that I always eventually feel as though I'm being sat on by seventeen people who are in their first three days of the Atkins diet and I'm in danger of smothering to death and having my bones crushed into a chalky pile so fucking inhuman that I'm confused for dust and hair and tossed in the garbage.

But that's just me.

Point is, Ashley and I have friendship warmth to melt our cold reservations about other people and we cling tightly to one another and hurl insults that are only insults because they're true, as our noses touch and our eyes cross from trying to focus on what's right in front of us. We're _that_ surprisingly close. With everyone else, we just do our best, but delight more in the icy chill of not trying at all. That was Ashley 2.0, _pre_ Spencer's epic return and the Kat I had to be in order to endure her, though.

Shit has changed.

Spencer Carlin has returned to me an old friend. Ever since my apartment has become "post-Ashley," and she now hammers nails into her eyes everyday for shits and giggles (or rather, chooses to continue living with the girl who not only got away, but was never actually in reach to begin with,) I've realized that I feel like I've been dropped back in high school with both of them. It's a bad movie, really, pandering to fourteen year-old lesbians who are still going through their acoustic guitar-driven music and DVD set-purchasing and watching with the volume on low and the door closed stage. I'm being played by Jena Malone, and it really is time for her to move onto adult roles, so I'm resentful even though it's an adequate casting choice, I suppose.

Ashley is back to asking questions instead of ending her sentences with periods and exclamation points. She looks like she's on the brink of an anxiety attack 89% of the time, and she's wearing her glasses again. She needs something sitting on her face to see clearly, and what was once a gumball machine of lady lovers is now just a pair of hip, black spectacles.

Since she and I are nose-to-nose and wrapped in the aforementioned quilt—a metaphor I'm regretting, actually—I use our close proximity to show her what needs to be done. I feed her the lines from the front row and when it seems as though she can't hear me, I mouth them instead. Unfortunately, though, it's as I said. We're so close—too close, sometimes—and her eyes cross from trying to focus on what's right in front of her.

I thought the glasses would help.

* * *

"I don't know about this Tara thing," she says, sitting across from me at their catch-all table, looking tired and worried, "it's just not…"

The wind from the open window sends a thin curtain flying across the wall, disturbs a pile of loose documents held down by a white coffee mug, vibrates the tips of dieting plants and finally whips her hair around her face. For several difficult moments I can't decide if she looks more like something ethereal and ascending—Renaissance-like—or something mildly horrifying and possibly dreamt into existence by M. Night Shyamalan on his quest to steal the money of thirteen year-old boys and their parent chaperones. I wonder if perhaps he bought the rights to our quiet little lesbian sleeper hit with the over-aged (but capable) Jena Malone until I remember that there's no such thing and even if there was, we don't live in New York City nor are we citizens of a small cultish village of plain-faced people.

I'll sleep easier tonight with that realization dancing about in my sweet, well-intentioned head.

"It's not what you thought it would be?" I offer, shrugging and waiting for her to just _get it_.

_You've been sitting silently on her doorstep—waiting—since the second you first saw her. _

_She's home—knock._

"No, I guess not."

"And what you thought it would be is this magical motherfucking fantasy circumstance that would use its mystical powers and tricks to make you forget the fact that you're in love with your roommate. Yeah, I mean, it sucks when that shit doesn't work out like we planned. And it's weird too, right? Because it seems like such a realistic, logical thing to want," I say, staring at the ceiling and shaking my fist in the air, "oh, God, why do you mock us so with your realistic solutions to our problems only to spit in our precious faces?"

She glares at me and shakes her head, "She's in her room, you know? So it would be really fucking nice if you would lower your voice, Kat."

"Yes, God, _please_ don't let her overhear the obvious truth. I mean, what would become of the world if she did? Surely CNN would be a-flurry with reports of unusual disasters. Our animal friends would probably start walking on their hind legs and shopping at Urban Outfitters and the rivers would run with the blood of a thousand red…"

"Is it really so hard to believe that you could be wrong? I mean, seriously. Have you even considered that maybe I know myself just a little bit better than you do?"

"No, I've never entertained such nonsense."

"Kat…"

"So how are things after the whole, 'I slept with your best friend and then forgot about it' dinner?" I ask, changing the subject before her whining makes my fists tremble with the temptation to violently beat her back into her false confidence.

She sighs and bobs her head around a little—something she's always done when she's overwhelmed, yet slightly amused. When she speaks, it's barely above a whisper, "She never seems bothered by anything. It's weird."

"I'm sure the road kill of your sex life pales in comparison to…you know, _everything_," I reply, remembering my first time seeing Spencer after it happened. We walked down opposite sides of the same grocery store aisle. I clutched my Pepperidge Farm Chessmen and needlessly avoided her eyes. She stared right into her mostly empty shopping cart like she couldn't believe how much _less_ she suddenly needed.

"What's _everything_?" a voice asks from somewhere behind me, and unless Ashley's been moonlighting as a ventriloquist for the past decade and rudely choosing not to invite me to her shows, I've invited unwanted attention from the other roommate.

I don't trust Ashley to lie our way through this because she's in the presence of Spencer Carlin and therefore, she's useless. Just absolutely goddamn, fucking useless. So I plaster on a quarter-smile (because the shit still has to be _believable _for fuck's sake) and swivel around to face the inquisitive blond.

"Everything as in, there are about seventy million inches worth of paperwork over there crying out for your attention and with that much work to do, I doubt very seriously that you even have the time to think about Ashley fucking Jonica in a bathroom stall at some awful club that had a general lack of quality beer on tap and a narcoleptic DJ providing the soundtrack to their stupidity."

Ashley's jaw drops. I don't have to see it happen because it's her usual response to everything that doesn't involve burning calories. In fact, had she not dropped her jaw in that club bathroom, we could've avoided this moment altogether.

"It makes so much more sense now how intensely Jon hated her that I'm more relieved than anything," she says, smiling at Ashley, "because she hates you _a lot_."

"I gathered."

"Where did you meet Jonica, anyway?" I ask, taking a bite of the celery I brought over in a Tupperware container, "the North Pole?"

She actually throws her head back and laughs, which makes me like her immensely. I _abhor_ when people are defensive about their friends. Because let's be real for a second, here—whatever negative shit someone says about your best friend is true. You simply don't fucking care because it's your best friend and you love the little whore anyway.

"Um…wow. No, no that's not where we met. I met her at work. I'm her boss, actually—which makes things very weird sometimes but we've made it this long, so..."

"Why is she so sad and angry and mean and weird?"

"Like _you_, you mean?" Ashley asks with a smirk.

"I'm none of those things, bitch. I'm disbelieving and un-medicated and intimidating and psychic. Those are the four things _I_ am, okay? All words aren't the same, Miss Ashley. You can't just use one or two of them without knowing what they mean."

"Oh, I'm deeply sorry."

"Don't get all sarcastic. If you don't know what certain adjectives mean just ask someone for help next time."

"Tell Spencer about your various experiences with speed dating, Kat. I knew the meanings of a few of the adjectives the guys wrote down to describe you, I think. Well, if 'maladjusted psycho' means what I think it means."

"You two are out of control," Spencer says, sliding into the chair next to me, "I feel a lot better about Jon now."

"You shouldn't."

"I shouldn't?"

"No, because Ashley and I still mean well. We're not secretly hoping the other one fails at life like Jonica is with you, you know?'

"I've got to agree with the crazy chick over there, Spence. Jonica is totally jealous of you. It's pretty obvious."

"Why would she be jealous of _me_?" she asks. It's sincere—not even a pathetic fish for compliments. It pains me to realize just how pure she was meant to but couldn't be. So I'm glad that Ashley answers without her usual filter even though I know that she'll sit on her bed tonight and regret.

"Why wouldn't she be jealous? You're beautiful and smart and funny and you…well, you have a lot of _presence_. It makes people want to sort of drown in your shadow a little bit."

Spencer grins, "There's not a single room I've ever been in that wouldn't have benefitted from your presence inside it. Not one."

The color drains from Ashley's face so fast you'd swear she was the late King of Pop reincarnated instead of this time-travelling 16 year-old version of herself, "What?"

"Oh, that's this quote from something…like, the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. I don't remember who it was or when, but it always kind of stuck with me as being this really incredible thing to have someone say. What you said just now reminded me of that…and thank you, by the way. I mean it."

Ashley doesn't say anything. She simply sits there, staring like time has stopped and the moment won't count later. But I recognize the face. In fact, I know it very well because I saw it the day after she signed the yearbook and the day after that and the day after that when nothing came of it but more rejection and Spencer walked out of the double-doors in a graduation cap and gown with a legion of un-close friends that would never see her the way my best friend did.

There's more silence before I kick her under the table, "Ash?"

"I'm sorry…I'm just not feeling well all of a sudden."

Spencer looks concerned, reaching over to rest her hand on Ashley's shoulder, "You want to go get in your bed and I'll bring you some Tylenol and juice or something?"

"Yeah, no…thank you, but I think I probably will take a nap for awhile. Maybe I'm just tired."

"That's probably it, because you haven't been sleeping well this week, huh?"

"Not at all."

"Did you put on that CD I gave you? Did it help at all?"

"I haven't listened to it yet."

"Well, you have to just put it on. You can't listen to it _and_ be sleep, can you?"

"Sorry, I should've said that I haven't _put it on_ yet. How's that? Better?"

"Much. And you should because you really need to sleep, Ash."

I watch this mostly-sickening, definitely marital exchange through narrowed eyes and realize that denial must be catching.

"I hope you feel better, dear friend. And I'll see you on Sunday, right? I mean, tomorrow? You know, if you're not too exhausted," I say, standing up and sealing the lid on my container before walking towards the door.

"Yeah, I'm sure I'll be a-okay."

"What's Sunday? I mean, if you don't mind me asking," Spencer says, looking at Ashley for an answer.

"Kat and I are taking a little day trip to Half Moon Bay."

"Oh," Spencer says, nodding and finally resting her eyes on me as I lean against the door, "that sounds like fun."

"Should be."

"I love Half Moon Bay, actually," she continues.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist or a person who cares to figure shit out that the blond wants in on the bonding. I notice that Ashley's looking at me too, like she's waiting for permission. I don't have the heart to tell her no, but I don't have the stomach to tell her yes. Instead, I open the door and walk off-stage.

I need coffee.

* * *

That need lands me at the only coffee shop I like in town. The coffee tastes like gorilla piss but it's strong and deadly so I drink it by the gallon and hope I don't start growing hair in unattractive places.

The place is nearly empty, being that it's a Saturday night and most people my age are out at a bar, pretending that they look better than they actually do and that _any _human interaction they have isn't strange and obnoxious but cute and charming—you know, which is an immense and utterly devastating lie that can lead to early pregnancy and bad marriages. And as my Shakespearean hero, Feste said to that bitch, Maria: Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage.

_Nearly empty_.

I sigh and take in the site of a couple in the back near the milk and sugar bar. They're laughing and holding hands and believing the falsehood that everyone will be tolerant of their noise because they're in love. Clearly, they've never met me and I doubt very seriously that after the look I prepare myself to direct their way, either of them would accept my friend request even after things between them grow "complicated."

So I order my triple-shot latte and walk over to the end of the bar closest to them and start to deliver a startling groan of disapproval when the taller one turns around and looks directly at me. And really? _Really_?

"H-h-hi, Kat. How are you? I didn't even know…"

"Hi, Robin," I say, leaning over to get a better view of her second girlfriend, "hi, Robin's girlfriend."

"Hi," she says, grabbing Robin's arm like a vise.

We stare at one another for several seconds before Robin sighs and shakes her head, "I'll handle it, okay?"

"Will you, Robin? You'll _handle it_?"

"It's between us."

"No, it's not. Because you can't use the word 'between' when you're speaking of _three_ people. So it's not between you at all. And honestly, I think I'm going to include myself in this group you're forming since I'm definitely going to tell her if you don't. That makes it four people which almost certainly makes this a better time to use the word _amongst_."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Tell her tonight or else I will. Is that simple enough for you, kiddo?"

She nods, flashing me a fleeting, condescending smile and turns around to explain the situation to her unlucky date while I throw a "to go" lid on my coffee. Five minutes later when I'm almost home and the cup's empty, I realize the ridiculous magnitude of what I've witnessed and am forced to consider, "What Would Jena Malone do?"


	10. Right Angles

_One more roadblock in my way that prevented me from posting last week. This is a two-part chapter, meaning ideally I have to be back sooner than later to conclude. I appreciate the feedback/support/love (too soon?) that you guys have given from the beginning. Thanks (always) for being patient with me. Enjoy!_

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**Chapter 10-Right Angles Part 1:**

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My digital clock is projecting its giant red numbers onto the ceiling. This is how I know that it begins around 2 am. At first I think it's the television and then the characters' voices become too familiar and they're talking over each other and sometimes they're too quiet and the director would have yelled cut and started from the top. There are two of them. Their voices fall and rise like angry waves and bounce around and against the wood of my bedroom door. It's a fight.

I yawn and stretch before padding as quietly as I can to where an inch of light is shining through underneath, lying down beside it to listen more carefully. At first it's all a jumbled mess, but then one sentence makes its way through without interruption.

"No, you don't ever get to fuck someone else and then tell me you love me."

I sit up, searching that bit of light for their shadows, but there are none. The angles aren't right.

When the front door slams and I realize that I've been sitting on the floor for several minutes, I make my way back to bed.

She's been on edge all morning. I've watched the tension settle and make itself uncomfortable, and now she's so beyond that she looks as though someone has starched and ironed her. It's an interesting visual, but when I want to smile at its strangeness, I don't. I remember looking for the shadows instead and my mouth narrows immediately.

Her favorite coffee cup—with the smiling, half-eaten donut cartoon—is in her hand and then on the kitchen table and then back in her hand on repeat. I wait until I hear her tiny little sighs (always more calm than the circumstance would allow for) and the faucet running to confirm my theory that shaking hands and hot liquids should definitely see other people.

When I look up, she's holding her hands under the water and staring into the sink.

And honestly, I should just ask. It's what roommates do. It's what _friends_ do. But she wants it so much that I can hardly make myself give it to her. Almost every time I look up from my book, she's staring me with her most honest _please_ expression. I imagine it's how I looked every day of every year that our eyes never met. When I say nothing, she smiles and looks away.

_Do I want to punish her now? Is that what this is?_

However, I don't have time to validate nor give in, because there are three distinct knocks on the door. Spencer doesn't even look for me to answer it. It's one of her many leftover symptoms of living alone for so long. She walks over instead, her eyes cast downward as she maniacally scrubs away at the coffee stain on her thin white t-shirt. It's the kind of t-shirt that would have sent me into a week-long depression in high school and now only informs me that she didn't have time to do her laundry again.

She inhales loudly before she twists the knob clockwise and a shock of black hair and white skin lets me know that Kat still knows the least perfect times to make appearances. It's almost comforting, except she never actually is and that's her point.

"Good morning, children."

"Oh, Kat," Spencer says, not forgetting to smile like she means it, "you look ready for a day at the beach."

I laugh as she comes more completely into view, covered in black from head to toe. I see as she makes her way over to the couch that she's also carrying a rather large picnic basket.

"What's in there? Sandwiches or something?" I ask, nodding at the basket.

"No. Prescription drugs, Rolos, and two cans of Minute Maid Pink Lemonade."

"Ah, naturally. And you forgot to cut the price tag off your new, obviously necessary picnic basket."

"I'm returning it the second we get back. What the fuck do I need with a fucking picnic basket? I'm not Julia Roberts and I don't live in Rhode Island or some shit, so like…"

"I love Julia Roberts," Spencer says, joining us in the living room.

Now that Kat's here, it's okay to act as though everything is fine. The minutes before are simply the minutes before. We don't bring them with us, and they don't get to influence the now. No bread crumbs, ever. It's the way she is. I enable it when I let her lead the way out of the woods and into the jungle.

"She's filled with secret rage, trust me," Kat says, pointing her finger at Spencer, "it's what people like about her whether they realize it or not."

"Do you mean me or do are you referring to Julia?"

"Both, probably. But I meant her for now."

"Well, most people are filled with some sort of secret, right?"

"Of course, Spencer. It's how we attract reproductive partners."

"You guys are dangerous together," I say, right before I see the tears forming in Spencer's eyes.

I want to hide her before Kat realizes that something is wrong, but it's impossible. She is the definition of perceptive and Spencer is the poster child for repression. The combination is fueled to its brim by me—the conflicted spectator. Whisking her away now would only heighten Kat's senses and really, who was I to protect the person I had punished all morning?

"Are we sad this day, Ms. Carlin?" Kat asks, sipping from my cup of coffee.

"It's been a hard one, yeah. But I'm fine. Just…drama."

Spencer runs her fingers through her hair. I watch a long thread of gold float onto her lap, and then I avert my eyes.

"Who pissed on your playground?"

Spencer laughs, "Pissed on my playground, huh? Well…Robin, I guess. I guess she pissed on my playground."

"If you're like me, you keep the gate locked so the pissers don't get in at all—period. If you're you, then you've got to make sure you carry a big gun so that you can scare them away when they look like their bladders won't hold, you know?"

"I'm not sure I'm following you."

Kat looks at the floor for a moment, seems to sort through a list of responses, "What happened?"

"You don't have to answer that, Spencer," I say, shaking my head at Kat, "no one…"

"She slept with someone else," she says, interrupting me with a wave of her hand.

I hear myself release a short hum of surprise. She looks at me and for a second it seems as though she might cry completely. Instead, she takes a few deep breaths and rubs her eyes. It reminds me…

_She's been almost still for the past few minutes, and I wait with baited breath for when she can shift again. She finally does, the result looking almost painful. Like her whole body makes the effort just to pick up her pen and jot down a few quick, short notes about Chlamydia. _

_When I had found out about this class—this mandatory, whogivesafuck Health class—and that it would be the first thing she and I had ever shared, it had taken everything not to scream out loud. And it still did, everyday. All the time. _

_Except for this moment. She fought tears so obviously that I had to take several glances around the room just to confirm that yeah, I was the only one concerned. _

"She told you today?" Kat asks, suddenly.

"No, she told me last night. And it's weird because, like…I knew it. I felt it, you know? But I ignored it because I thought that maybe I was just paranoid since it's been so…it's been a really long time since I've done this. I don't _do_ this often."

"What did you tell her?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is it over or what?" Kat clarifies, taking another sip of my (more than likely) cold coffee.

"I don't know."

"Spencer, this may come across as insensitive, but um…she's definitely fucking someone else at this very moment with a gigantic polka-dot dildo and you pretty much need to either go beat her up and then dump her or pay me to do it for you. For the record, if things go too far it's an extra charge for disposal of the body," Kat says, straight-faced and even-toned as always, "which option sounds most appealing to you? Cash or check?"

"It's really not that simple—not that what you just described is simple because…"

"It is, it is, it is, it is, though. It just is," Kat says, moving her hands in a windmill as she scoots further off the couch and plants her feet.

"Are you okay, Spence?" I ask, able to speak for the first time in ages. And the question is late, but it needs asking.

"I was just ready to trust something again, that's all."

"Has to be the right thing, not the first thing," Kat says, quietly.

"Guess you're right."

We all stare at the coffee table, my eyes resting on the cover of the latest "Yoga Journal." Things were just yoga and sex and shopping a couple of months ago. Now everything bubbled all the time, like a suburb built on top of a landfill. It's all fine until the snow melts and the barrels push through the dirt and now it's understood why the rent is so fucking cheap.

"So go pack your best pretend face, Carlin. We're going to the beach to wash our troubles away like unattended children."

"Really?" Spencer asks, her eyes a little brighter as she looks at Kat.

"No, I'm kidding and we're actually taking Robin instead."

"I sort of love you, Kat," Spencer says, smiling widely before turning to me, "it's okay?"

"Of course."

She walks down the hall, and Kat and I remain silent until we hear her door click shut.

"You should have known before I got here, Ashley."

"I know," I sigh, nodding pathetically.

"She can't go back and undo something she never even knew she was doing."

"I know."

"Then stop being such a dickface motherfucker."

"I'll try."

"You'll be unsuccessful because as long as I've known you, you've been a dickface motherfucker," Kat says, finishing off the coffee, "just aim for it. And if you don't reach it, you'll still be amongst the dickface half."

"That's extraordinarily inspiring."

"I'm thinking of being an inspirational speaker—for kids and fucking old people."

"Perfect."

* * *

Hours later, after a rather awkward car ride made even more awkward by Spencer's pure enjoyment of Kat's ridiculous antics and a series of unanswered texts from Robin that left half-grins where wide ones had dwelled moments earlier, we sat side by side by side in the sand.

The air was cold, and the sand offered more tree limbs and washed rubble than seashells and castles. But of course, that meant a mostly empty beach and locals as opposed to yelling, entitled tourists and haphazard Frisbee tosses. The lack of things suited the mood, and when I would glance beside me at Spencer, she looked a little less starched.

"I forgot my basket in the car," Kat says, standing up and brushing sand off of her coat, "I'll be back."

We both nod at her, watching as she walks up the incline to the car.

"I really, really like her," Spencer says, squeezing my knee once before burying her hands in the sand.

"She's pretty awesome sometimes, actually."

"You're lucky to have her."

"We both are."

"That's assuming you don't get tired of my…you know, everything."

"I will gladly take your everything any day of the week. I've seen worse everything," I say, squeezing her knee right back, "and for the record, I'm not going anywhere—which means Wednesday Addams up there isn't either."

"I hope not. I'd miss all your weird stuff in the fridge and your world music at five in the morning."

"Who wouldn't?"

"Sane people, I imagine."

"Right, but they don't count."

"True."

"I hate to bring this up, but really, Spencer. I hope you're okay."

We're both quiet for awhile, watching as the waves hit the beach and retreat. I turn to check on Kat, who's talking to an elderly man next to the car and pointing at something on his shirt. I've almost started to think that maybe she didn't hear me despite our undeniable proximity when her voice enters my right ear.

"You think this is her first time cheating?" Spencer asks, still looking out at the ocean.

"Robin?"

"Is someone else cheating on me too that I don't know about?"

I laugh a little. Pause first. "Do you think it is? You would know better than I ever could, right?"

"I thought maybe you would be more privy to the behaviors of those who can't keep it in their pants. You are Ashley Davies, after all."

"So I am," I reply, embarrassed for reasons I can't explain.

"Maybe I wasn't clear enough about what I wanted from her, you know? It's not like we ever had some sort of conversation where I said, 'hey, don't fuck other girls and then tell me you love me and try to take me with you to Paris.'"

"She asked you to go to Paris?" I ask, feeling a nostalgic panic rise up in my chest.

"Yeah, for a week at the beginning of next month."

"A vacation?"

"A vacation. Not for like, _ever_. A few days in a hotel overlooking the Eiffel Tower," she says in a sing-songy voice, "but I guess that's out of the question."

"You don't sound convinced that this thing is over."

"Things end _for_ me. I never get to choose. It's never my decision. So to be the one who has to weigh the pros and cons and figure out whether or not the person I thought I could be with for a long time is worth forgiving? Yeah, that's totally a foreign concept to me."

"Sometimes people deserve a second chance," I say, forcing a smile.

"Never expected the cliché answer from you, Ash, but I guess it's as good as any."

"I don't exactly have a ton of experience to draw from, so if it wasn't on 'Dawson's Creek,' I don't know what to tell you."

She sits back with an amused grin, eyeing me as if with a new appreciation for this tiny piece of information.

"Joey or Jen?"

"I'm assuming that both aren't an option, right?"

She narrows her eyes at me, "_Ashley_…"

"Jen."

"Jen! Really?"

"Yeah, why not? She was…hey, the laughing isn't cool, okay? I'm divulging some pretty personal shit right now."

"Oh my God. That just says so much about you because like, really? Who wasn't in love with Joey Potter?"

"I wanted the girl who could give it to you straight. No hurt feelings, no sensitive reactions, no wistful faces. Uh-uh."

"I get it now. No, I totally get it. You _were_ the Joey Potter and that's why you couldn't like her."

"No way."

"Let me guess, you had some terrible crush all through high school or something—the one who got away! And that's why you sleep with everybody you talk to for more than three seconds, right? It's honestly the one and only explanation, because if not, you're just insane."

I swallowed hard, convinced for a short moment that she somehow had figured out my secret, "I'm sorry to disappoint, but you've got it all wrong."

"Doubt it, but I'm going to let you slide with this one," she says, inching slightly closer and resting her hand on my shoulder, "only because my grandparents are sending my senior yearbook in the mail. Then I'm going to hold your yoga magazines hostage until you point her out."

Before I can mumble something about assumptions and more important things to worry about, Kat is standing in front of us holding a small sheet of white paper with messy numbers scrawled across.

"Hot date with Father Time?" I ask, looking up at her.

"Go fuck yourself with a hot iron, Morris. No, there's no date with Sir Prunes. However, he did make a completely uninformed guess that I might like his grandson so he gave me the kid's digits."

"You're not actually going to…"

"Of course I am. This situation has 'Lifetime Movie Network' written all over it, and I'm just so absolutely down."

"Well, while you were gone, you missed out on Ashley telling me all about her secret high school crush," Spencer says.

I want to stop it. I want to interject before Kat's confusion speaks for her and everything is finally out in the open, but there's no time. There's no time to make Kat look at me and _know_.

"She told you she had a crush on you?" she asks quickly, but I see in her face the moment she remembers that she's best friends with someone who was scared then, and scared now. Someone who would never willingly admit anything with the absence of a rock and a hard place.

But it's already too late.

"Wait…_what_?" Spencer asks, and the only thing I can do is take a deep breath and start explaining.

(to be continued)


	11. Right Angles: Part II

**_Okay, so I've been without internet in London for awhile. And I would tell you all about my journey, but I get it. You want your chapter :) I meant it when I said I'm finishing this story, so hold tight! _**

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**Chapter 11: Right Angles Part II**

I check for a pulse the way I was taught in elementary gym class, fingers resting haphazardly on my wrist (because after all, elementary school was a long time ago.) When I feel nothing I'm not surprised, before realizing that it can't be true. I'm more panicked by the latter, more encouraged by the former.

Her eyes are all over me now, waiting for my words to wipe away the crinkle of confusion that's formed around the bridge of her nose. She has sand in her hair. Her mouth is open and poised, needing my response in order to shape hers.

I avert my eyes toward the dark-haired ghost who looks betrayed and unraveled in the mist. She's slipped, she's released, and she's divulged without correctly predicting her consequence.

Kat is Kat because of the absence of these mistakes. Without them she's one of us. And for a second I feel so sorry for her loss that I almost forget Spencer's face.

But just as I never, ever have before, I didn't this time either.

"What is she talking about?" she asks again, smiling a little as if it will somehow encourage me.

"I…I don't even know how to finally…"

"Inside joke," Kat interrupts, the Kat-ness seemingly finding its way back into her blood stream judging by the look of her emotionless face, "she wanted to rub up against everyone and everything back then, pre-extreme homo makeover. For years she couldn't mention a name in high school without me giving her shit about how she probably wanted to make sweet, reckless love to the party at hand. Mostly she just had a party with her _own_ hand."

"Wow, Kat," I say, shaking my head.

"Whatever. Point is, she probably _did_ want to get all up in your sandbox. But she wanted everyone's, so it's just like…it doesn't actually mean anything."

She had recovered desperately—not a pretty version of herself, certainly—and though it might not have been a smooth transition or a touchdown after an interception or even believable to anyone with any sort of ego, it had worked. Spencer's face smoothed a bit and she laughed enough for it to almost be contagious.

"I can't wait for my yearbook," she says quietly, winking at me before shaking the sand from her hair. I wasn't even sure how she could have known it was there.

But she did. She knew.

"Sometimes I miss the old Ashley," Kat says, looking at me with a sincere grin that makes her look like the old Kat.

"I'm sure you're the only one."

"Well, of course, because I'm the only one who knows to miss her. She never met anyone else."

"I still can't believe I don't remember you," Spencer says, shaking her head, "that's so weird."

"There was nothing worth remembering," I reply, digging in the sand.

"That's not true."

"See? Kat says that's not true."

I sigh, "Don't be fooled. Kat can be wrong sometimes just like everyone else."

I can see Spencer and the ghost exchange smiling glances, and I contemplate burrowing into the sand and waiting for them to forget about me and leave. But then I realize it's exactly what old Ashley would have done and so I don't.

I thought it was over after that. I thought my heart might find its normal rhythm and stop sprinting its staccato beat against my chest. But there was no such luck, and eventually I could feel it even in the tips of my toes.

I was nervous. It's that feeling of knowing your heart has fallen lower in your chest and is holding only with quickly snapping cables like an elevator in an action movie. You feel it and you think you know why. But maybe you don't know why and maybe you don't remember when you got so homesick for something that doesn't even resemble home. You don't even really know what home _is_ to you, anyway.

For some reason this makes me think of Kat's childhood house of brown, her startling paleness clashing with everything surrounding her.

She hums from the front seat as we weave our way back towards Berkeley and away from the quiet beach. We hadn't stayed for long. The ghost was restless, disappearing at times behind fog clouds that blended with her complexion and left her even more mystical than she had started. Spencer's mood had floated similarly. She was in a fog and then she wasn't. Self-imposed and inspired by her wandering lady love and intensified by the gray expanse of the lonely, mysterious bay.

I wanted to wrap my arms around her and tell her in her hair-covered ear that life is always going to be okay. But she was already enveloped by something else, and I had to wait my turn.

The fact that the feeling seemed familiar made the nervousness far worse. And I was tired of trying to figure out why the nostalgia had a current that the bay could never understand.

* * *

I push open the front door and am grateful for every sliver that's revealed to me as it swings.

"Thank God," I say, stepping inside. Spencer follows quickly behind me, dropping her bag on the floor and kicking it against the wall.

"I'm tired and I want to watch prison documentaries online, so I think this is goodbye, my lovelies," Kat says, leaning against our doorframe.

Spencer nods, lips locked in a closed yet sincere smile.

"Alright, Madam Addams. I'll see you in the next couple of days, right?" I ask, lightly tapping her on the shoulder.

"Unless my life of nicotine, alcohol, and caffeine addiction catch up to me and mouth-to-mouth isn't in my beautiful kitty's arsenal, then yeah."

Spencer laughs.

"Keeping it positive as always, my friend."

"It's the name of the shame," she says, tipping her sunglasses down over her eyes, "see ya, kids."

I watch her walk down the hall for a moment before gently closing the door. I didn't want to jolt any of my senses awake just yet—not until I deciphered Spencer's mood.

She moves quickly, backing away from the door like she's suddenly terrified of it. I have to wonder if maybe she feels more comfortable around ghosts.

"That was fun," she says, and it's loads less sincere than the smile.

"You don't sound like it was all that fun…and you don't have to lie to me, you know."

"I mean, it _was_ fun," she says, laughing when she sees my look of disbelief, "seriously, it was. But it was hard to forget about the fact that I have this stuff going on with Robin."

"Do you know what you're going to do yet?"

"No, not at all actually. Because I'm fucking scared. I think I've realized that I'm scared of what it means if I don't make this work with her."

"Why would you be scared?" I ask, gesturing for her to follow me into the living room, "like, are you scared of being alone or what?"

She sits next to me on the couch, blue eyes cast downward, "I guess I'm scared of being this _wrong_ about someone. I'm scared that my instincts wouldn't have informed me that I had a lying cheater on my hands."

"It's okay to be wrong about people. We're fucking chameleons."

"Right…"

"We are."

"So you're not really who I think you are then, huh? Your colors could change at any moment?"

"My colors have changed once or twice in this life," I answer honestly, "but are you living with a stranger? No, I don't believe you are."

"_So_ convincing," she laughs, but it sounds more like someone's crumpling a piece of paper.

"Spencer…"  
She waves her hands in the air, shaking her head like she'd use every physical part of herself to stop me from talking, "No, no, no. It's fine, you know? I don't need you to like…_fix_ this. And you can't anyway because you just sleep with girls. You don't actually know about feelings. You don't actually care."

I narrow my eyes, knowing where this was going and why it has to. Ever since becoming the present version of myself, I had been an easy target for girls who liked to believe that touching and feeling were separate things altogether.

They were probably right, but I couldn't know.

"I care about you, though. I care about how you're feeling," I say, reaching down to grip her knee, mirroring images I had seen of people who actually knew how to show sincerity, "I hope that you know that because it's true."

"It doesn't even matter. The one thing you're known for giving out to everyone and you haven't even offered it to me…"

I swallowed—hard.

"What are you talking about?" I ask her, shifting nervously.

"Why haven't you tried anything with me?"

I make a strange sound from low in my throat, literally searching for words to push up and out. But no—nothing.

"Is it that you don't find me attractive or what?" she continues, smiling a bit cruelly now.

"You're my roommate," I finally muster, knowing it's not going to be enough.

"Yes, and you're the picture of self-control when it comes to sex, aren't you?"

"It's just not a good idea."

"Because you think I'd fall in love with you or something, right? What a joke."

I took two deep breaths, fighting tears. I was completely caught off guard by this sudden switch in personality. I had only seen her calm and composed, even when she was sad or hurt. But it was as if she finally realized that she was living with the enemy. The person who turned down love when it was offered. Made that act her purpose as if it could actually hold any purpose at all.

"Trust me, Spencer. I know that you wouldn't."

"Then do it," she says, and it's practically a plea.

She wants to try it my way. She wants to not care. What she doesn't know is that in the resistance, there's the aching of not having. Some feel the agony of losing. Others mourn what they've never known, without the body to weep over. Their tears are absorbed by nothing at all and their pain is aimed at no one, but it's still present. It still haunts.

"I can't. You don't understand."

"You don't have to protect me. If that's what this is, then know that I don't need protecting."

"It's more than that."

She nods at me before standing up. When I finally follow the trail up to her face, I find her eyes looking at the ground near my feet. On the third blink, her eyes stay closed several moments longer than necessary.

"I'm sorry," she says, and the tears are coming out of hiding now, "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm _saying_."

"It's okay."

"No, no it's not. Ashley, I know that you care and…and we're friends. You're trying with me and I'm trying with you. Sex has no place in that."

"Why do I feel like you weren't actually asking for sex?"

"Wishful thinking?" she laughs sadly.

"I think you just wanted someone to _be_ with you. And maybe you wanted some control back. I don't know how a lot of things feel, I guess. But you know what? I know how _that_ feels."

And I do. Because that feeling is who I am.

"I'm sorry," she says again.

It scratches at my ears like low-hanging tree branches. I don't want to hear an apology from her. I simply want her to feel better.

"I think maybe we can," I say, grabbing her hand and allowing her to pull me up.

"What do you…"

"You can be with me if you want. I think it's fine."

My hands are shaking, and I'm convinced she has to feel it since she's yet to let go. Or maybe I haven't let go. All I know is that if I can't make her feel better, I can help her feel nothing instead.

"Ashley, I think you were right the first time. It's not a good idea."

"You're my friend. Let me be your friend. It can just be that, right? It doesn't have to mean anything that we don't want it to mean."

She stares at me. Her hand is so hot, I feel like I'm touching something that's been boiling. Her shoulders slowly drift south, like the possibility is becoming okay. And for the first time I wonder, have I considered my own stability at all?

"I…" she says, and then she stops and shakes her head, "are we sure?"

How many times and how many years had I wished she needed me for anything—_anything_? I owed us this, right? Both of us.

I nod twice.

* * *

We were in her room. We tried starting in the living room, but no one moved until she laughed rather loudly and gestured down the hall. I followed her with unsure steps—like an obedient toddler—and once we had reached the room, she grabbed my hand again and pulled me forward a bit. Up close her eyes seemed almost overwhelming. Two glass prisms tinged with a tricky, changing blue. I wanted to keep them, but I…

"Friends," she states more than asks, and I attempt a confirming smile.

She thinks I'm letting her have her control back, I'm sure. But actually, I'm so shamefully nervous that I can't convince my body to do the things it wants to do. Like running and/or staying forever.

"Will you undress me?" she asks, her voice surprisingly strong, "I like that."

I can't remember anyone ever having to ask. I'd have been embarrassed, but I was too nerve-sick to pay it any attention. Instead, I called on the heavens to help me move my hands, and the heavens made it so. The right one moved slowly through the air until it made contact with the collar of her shirt. It decides there are better, easier ways and enlists the help of the left before grabbing the bottom of it instead and tugging it up and over.

When it's off, her hair is unruly and her eyes are still closed, so I proceed. I reach around for the clasp of her bra, fearing my nerves would most certainly give me away. But no. I'm too practiced to get it wrong, and there's a moment where I realize that maybe I'd want to show her a mistake.

When the bra is off, I close my eyes as well. Years of waiting to see and I close my eyes immediately. When I feel that she's touching me, they shoot open just as quickly.

"I'm sorry," I say without thinking as she looks into my eyes.

"Apologize to someone who doesn't know," she replies.

I'm convinced she's forgotten the "you" at the end, until I understand that she hasn't.

Then she moves my hands to her face and leans in.

I want to run, but I can't.

* * *

Short moments later, we're in her bed and parallel with her writhing beneath me. Somewhere between standing and here, I remembered that she needed more than a nervous teenager. I gathered up years of sure moments for my own confidence, veiled myself in them and attempted to make her forget while I remembered. Because Kat would know me well enough to ask later, I appreciated long seconds of awareness that I was finally on top of Spencer Carlin. She was finally looking up to see me.

Her eyes stayed open and watching as I slid my fingers inside her. Even when my own eyes closed, I could tell she was still watching. It was almost horrible how much she felt as I had always known she would. It was almost too much.


	12. Surprises

_**All I can say, you guys, is that there's been a lot going on in my life for the past few months. I've really appreciated reading what you had to say about bringing the story back, and a promise is a promise, right? So here it is. I appreciate your patience, and hopefully your understanding that I literally got to work on this as soon as I could. Enjoy!**___

**Chapter 12: Surprises**

Those eyes are like guns. Or they're like bullets. I'm not sure. Are they the assault or the battery—the threat or the delivery? They would be locked into mine, except I refuse to make direct, consistent eye contact with her for fear that I'll begin a nervous outpouring of adjectives and conjunctions and never stop. When I'm accused of behaviors that feel foreign to those that I live with the most, I ramble as though enough words will bring me back to myself—or a person close enough that I wouldn't know the difference.

"Talk, Spencer. Tell me what happened."

"I'm not even sure I…I'm not even sure what I'm allowed to say."

"Allowed to say?" she asks, pale fingers leaving the handle of her coffee mug and resting on the arm of the chair.

"It's weird, Kat. She's your friend. You're _her_ friend."

"And you need a friend because that elfish slut monster you socialize with is angry at you—perhaps for refusing to inform her that she has an unfortunate face and personality and should dive into the shallow end of a plastic, child-intended, K-Mart pool. The world may never know the real reason. Either way, she's not here. If I had an acid bath in which to dip myself or the ability to switch brains with a rabid squirrel, then I'd pretend I was her. But I've yet to evolve this far, so it's me, okay? You've got me," she says with a smirk, "start talking, little Spencer Carlin. This coffee ain't free."

I laugh, nodding and taking a deep breath before scooting closer to the edge of my chair in anticipation, "Where do I even begin, Kat?"

"You begin at the most important part. The rest is all validations and soundtrack."

"Well," I start, watching my hands move up and down across my jean-clad thighs, "we almost had sex. Um…Ashley and I almost had sex. And now we're…things are weird and I don't know what to do or how to fix it. She looks at me like I confuse her now."

"Like you confuse her or like she's confused _you_?"

I think again, shaking my head as I continue, "Not like I confuse her, I guess. Maybe it's like I'm going to ask her a question she doesn't have an answer to or something."

"Who stopped it?"

"What?"

"Who stopped it from happening?" she asks, turning away from me to stare at a child who had wandered into close proximity.

I thought back to that day, tensing slightly at the memory as it suddenly made its way back into the present for an unexpected visit. I could feel her lying on top of me, fingers painting myself onto myself as she waited to slide inside. She was shaking.

I'm almost sure I remember that correctly.

Her skin smelled like men's deodorant and the ocean. I wanted to kiss her shoulder with my nose, but I was scared to move. Once, she smiled at me, but there seemed to be so much occurring behind it that it made me feel lonely.

"I did. But I'm positive that she would have done it if I hadn't done it first."

"Why do you say that?"

"I don't know. It was just something about how hesitant she was with me. I mean, I haven't been a fly on the wall to any of these millions of sexual encounters she's had, but I imagine she's not known for her hesitancy."

"Ashley is a complex creature. I don't attempt to fill in her blanks. However, I'd wager that you are correct."

"Not only that," I say, feeling myself growing irritable, "but like, she's brought so many girls home lately. And that's weird because there was the one—I can't remember her name—and it seemed like she was into her or whatever. So now there are all these random girls and I don't get it. I really don't. And it's fine. I'm not jealous, I'm just surprised."

"I think that surprise and jealousy are the same thing for the most part, but that's neither here nor there."

She appears to be formulating some sort of thought or theory in her head, and so I sip my chai and wait. Watch the child pace back and forth and attempt to send him telekinetic mind warnings not to get too close to her. The swinging light fixture above us needs a new bulb. It flickers every three seconds or so, adding a sinister presence to an otherwise ordinary coffee shop—Kat's choice.

I had called her two hours ago, frantic and bubbling with the unsaid. I needed to talk so badly that I simply couldn't go another day. I couldn't watch Ashley look at me like I was someone she used to know but no longer had anything in common with as I cleaned the kitchen countertop for the hundredth time. I just couldn't. And no, there was no Jonica to call. No mother to offer advice. Instead, I had this new acquaintance who I sort of wished was _my_ best friend instead. Even if it was just for an afternoon or two.

"Spencer, I want to make this complicated for you. I really do. But unfortunately for everyone, it's not," Kat finally says, shaking her empty coffee cup and frowning as though she had run out of loved ones instead of caffeine.

"It's not?"

"No, it's not. You fine young ladies are lesbians—which I'm slowly learning to accept—and you're also roommates. Shit happens, you know? What do you guys want? It was a mistake. Don't do it again."

"Kat, I know you're just trying to help, but…"

"No, I would never try to _help_. Look, Ashley is fucking bananas. She always has been. And she gets in these fucking moods where she thinks she's the only person who's ever done anything or been anywhere or felt anything. Give her a few days and she'll snap out of it. If she doesn't, call me and I'll threaten her."

"Are you sure?"

"I didn't want to tell you this until I felt like I could trust you, Spencer, but you must know that I'm a psychic whose only gift is the ability to see what type of idiot Ashley's going to choose to act like on any given day," Kat says, smiling as though she's a proud, yet knowing parent, "it's generally a waste, but it comes in handy for moments like this one."

"But I think we should talk. Like, if I could just let her know that I'm fine…that nothing has to change…"

"No, no, no. It _does_ have to change."

I groan, rubbing my temples with my index fingers, "Why would it have to change?"

"You've seen each other's boobs. She's familiar with your grand lady canyon. Let's be real, here. You can't just act like everything is the same as it used to be."

"Then what? What do we do?"

"You have to acknowledge it! Say, 'hey, Ashley, I realize that you've now met my grand lady canyon. I'm not choosing to ignore that fact. Instead, I'm choosing to accept this new step in our evolution as roommates and friends and when it's appropriate and sometimes when it's not, I'd like to make clever references to the fact that we almost fucked. Because guess what? It's kind of fucking funny that we thought it would be a good idea to fuck. I mean, especially since I'm recovering from a horrible betrayal and you're addicted to the temporary release that sex with strangers provides you. So yeah, we're going to joke about it. This is a healthy thing to do, so get ready for some healthy. If you have any questions, Kat thinks you're an idiot. Goodnight.'"

"Wow."

"Thank you."

* * *

I waited for her to come home from work, ready to follow Kat's advice and put this "almost-sex" behind us. I would've done it immediately, only she didn't return to the apartment until the wee hours of the morning and left for work looking miserable and more than a little hungover. Somewhere there was yet another girl waking up to uncertainty.

I did my best to make the setting for our conversation as commonplace as possible. There was a pot of vegetarian chili on the stove and a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge. If I couldn't get her to open up, maybe red wine would. If not red, there was white, and if not white, there was vodka. Certainly anything was worth or could be made into a shot at this point.

Right as I went to stir the chili, there was a quiet knock on the door. I pictured Ashley on the other side, embarrassed to admit she had forgotten her key yet again. I smiled on my way to answering it, deciding that it was the right way to start this conversation. She would return my smile and shrug. Say, "What am I going to do the first time I forget my key and you're not here?" Just like she always did. I would reply, "While you're once again reminded of the incredible importance I hold in your everyday life, I think this is the perfect time for us to talk about what the hell has been going on with us." We would figure it out. We would figure out how to be us again.

But that couldn't happen. Not with Robin standing in the doorway instead.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, swallowing back a million harsh words and avoiding her eyes.

"You haven't returned my calls."

Her voice breaks slightly on the last word, but she looks as though she's slept recently. Her button-down shirt has been ironed carefully. She appears to weigh the exact same number of pounds. The very least of what she owed me was a sign that this had affected her. That she missed who we could've been and couldn't sleep, eat, or function without it.

"And this shocked you because?"

She reaches for my hand, but quickly withdraws as though the realization hits her that I'm not to be touched by her ever again.

"May I come in, please? Just for a second, Spence."

"No."

"Even if this is over…even if I can't make you forgive me, could we at least have some closure? Don't you want that?"

"I have it. You know what closure was, Robin? It was hearing you tell me that you were cheating on me. So unless you care to tell me that once more just for laughs, I'm done."

A single tear rolls down her face, and she looks at me with such immense sadness that I feel my resolve begin to crumble. I don't like watching people lose.

"Spence, _please_. I don't deserve it, but I have to ask for it anyway. Five minutes…can I…"

"Three minutes," I reply, ushering her in by her shoulder and closing the door, "talk. Go."

She stumbles a bit, over her words and over one of Ashley's spare yoga mats, "You look nice."

"I'm serious. You have three minutes."

"Okay, _okay_. I hear you. I just…you're hard sometimes Spencer. Like, it's hard to get to know you or feel needed. I don't know. I guess there was always this block there for me…from you. And I wanted so badly to get past it, but I have no idea how to do that. I _had_ no idea how to do that."

"Don't just stand there and say all of this shit you wanted to say to me before you slept with someone else. If this is how you felt, then we could've done something about it, Robin. I could've done something. It's pointless to tell me now."

"But it wasn't…like, it wasn't a deal breaker. I still wanted you."

"You wanted everything, though. So that doesn't mean anything to me."

She starts to say something else, but I see her eyes are now looking past me. Towards the front door. When I follow them, I find Ashley there. She looks surprised to see Robin. Blinks several times in her direction, as if she's only seeing things.

"Oh, hi," she finally says, tossing her bag on the floor and heading quickly to the kitchen, "I'm just grabbing a Vitamin Water and showering and then I'm out of your hair."

"No."

"Seriously," she replies, as if I simply don't believe her.

"No, Robin was just leaving."

Robin looks at me like a punished child before nodding. She doesn't try to touch me again, though she looks like she wants to. Instead, she clears her throat and looks once at Ashley. Then she's gone, closing the door behind her with a soft _click_.

"Are you actually back with her or…like, is that a good idea?" Ashley asked, studying me from the kitchen with a strange smile stretching awkwardly across her face.

"Not even close."

"Because she'll cheat on you again. You know that, right? She's just one of those people."

"Which people—who?" I ask, joining her in the kitchen.

"I'm seriously leaving soon. I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner or whatever. I'm sure you can still catch her."

I grab her arm, silencing the words she hasn't even spoken yet. She sighs, taking a large swallow of her Vitamin Water and waiting for me to say something.

"I wasn't planning on having dinner with her. I was planning on having dinner with _you_," I say, letting go of her arm and walking to the stove to stir the chili, "but you have plans, I guess."

"You should've said something this morning."

"Would it actually have mattered? I mean, Ashley…what's going on?"

"I don't—"

"Please don't say anything dumb right now."

She laughs, and it's such a welcome sound that I feel my heart throb with excitement. I hadn't heard her laugh in days.

"Spencer, nothing is going on, okay? Yeah, things are a little weird. But we almost had sex, so like, isn't that to be expected?"

"When do things go back to normal? And how _can_ they, Ashley, if you're gone all the time?"

"I've been going out. I've always gone out."

"No. What happened to that girl?"

"She's…it didn't work out."

"I'm incredibly surprised."

"Aren't we all?" she asks, smiling and eyeing the stove, "what's in there?"

"In the pot?"

"Yeah."

"That vegetarian chili you like."

"Are you going to throw mine in some Tupperware so I can take it for lunch tomorrow?"

"No, I'm going to eat it all because you suck."

"Alright, but when you need a personal trainer afterwards, I suggest you find someone else."

"Gladly."

She's still smiling, spinning the bottle around in her hands, "You have an hour and that chili better be _dynamic_."

She's making these tiny little noises of pleasure as she shamelessly scoops chili into her waiting mouth. We haven't said much. We haven't really done much with this designated bit of time, other than eat our chili and smile like we're seeing each other for the first time in years.

I'm not sure what it is. I can't really explain how it's possible that I can miss her so much when she becomes that Ashley Davies that belongs to someone else. I don't know why I wait with such unguarded anticipation for the one I know to drag her feet right back inside the reality that's ours. Maybe she's like family now. Maybe I miss her like I miss my family. Something I love that's mine, and in spite of, and just because, and through presence and absence alike.

I shift nervously at the thought. I think it without really wanting to.

"You've got to stop looking at me like you think I think you're going to freak out. I already know that you're not, so stop it."

I look at her, confused by her sudden statement, "_What_?"

"I feel like you're thinking that I'm thinking you're going to freak out about what happened."

"_Uh-huh_…"

"But I'm not."

"Okay."

"It's just that…I really like living here and being your friend. It's been…it's been really, really nice. Besides Kat, there aren't a lot of people that get to see me when I'm not hunting for something or _someone_. So it's important to me that you keep seeing me like that, instead of as that other person."

It's as though she was reading my mind a second ago and attempting to put in her own words so as not to arouse suspicion of her intrusion.

"I know that the other Ashley isn't who you actually are. And you know that I know it so you feel comfortable with me."

"Maybe…sure."

"But you need to know me too. You need to know that I'm not going anywhere and I never think of you as anything less than the person that I love having as my roommate…as my friend," I say, grabbing her spoonless hand, "I need to have you here."

The realization comes after the words, and I worry that she'll let go, but she doesn't. She just looks at me in that inexplicably familiar way of hers.

"Well, I need you to be here."

"Ashley…"

"I need you to be here, wanting to know me. I can't tell you why, but it means something to me…to have you here, wanting to know."

There's a tension that settles, but it doesn't separate us. Rather, it's a bridge. It's as if we have no choice but to cross the line again, if not for the fact that there's something structurally allowing it to happen.

I hear her chair protest loudly on the wood floors and then her mouth is on mine. It doesn't stay. It travels, and as if my physical self feels the urge to promote it, a recklessly needy moan travels from the pit of my stomach, to the expanse of my chest, and out through the same lips that are still burning from her visit.

I bury my face in her shoulder, suddenly at a loss as to what I should do. There are many giant parts of me that know I should stop her hands as they move under the harsh material of my favorite wool sweater. But her fingers are so light on my skin that it's easy to pretend it's not actually happening at all. They're ghosts, and I'm not completely convinced that ghosts are real, even when I undoubtedly feel them close to me.

Her neck smells like our apartment—centralized—and laundry detergent. Altogether, it's _home_.

When her fingers are pushing my bra up and exposing me even more intimately to her touch, I erupt. I literally just combust under the pressure of a heat that's been rising for days, strengthened and stirred by confusion and hurt and disappointment and then the uncertainty of a touch that feels like so much but isn't supposed to be there at all. I push everything out until I'm quaking from the release.

Ashley pulls away, looks at me with a parted mouth and wide eyes.

"Come on," she says, lifting me up from my chair and holding me against her, "feet on my feet."

"Feet on your…"

"Stand on my feet," she says, calmly.

With her hands gripping my waist and her mouth still parted and releasing long, purposeful breaths against my ear, I follow her direction and place my feet on top of hers. Slowly, she starts walking us out of the dining area, down the hall, and into her room. She stops when the back of my thighs make contact with her bed.

"You know and I know too, okay?" she says a little desperately, pushing me down until I'm seated on the mattress.

For a moment, her statement is rather ambiguous, but then I remember how this all started anyway and I nod, "This is fine. We know."

She nods too, and then kisses me again, her tongue moving softly across my lips until it's allowed inside. She's gentle with it, using it only as a reminder that it's present when truly needed. My mind spells out exactly where its presence could be beneficial and I buck against her on her way down to a kneeling position in front of me. She whimpers uncharacteristically and grips my thighs with her fingertips.

"Spencer Carlin," she whispers, moving her face until it's resting in my lap.

I feel her drag her tongue down up and down the zipper of my jeans, and an unusual amount of wetness floods my panties almost instantaneously.

"Take them off," I say, my voice barely audible.

She doesn't say anything. Instead she quickly unbuttons and unzips and undresses until I'm sitting in my underwear, suddenly aware that her window is slightly open. I find that the time she takes slipping my sweater over my head is completely intentional. The wool moves over my skin centimeter by centimeter, heightening my senses and leaving me anxious for her fingers. She stands and leans over me, reaching behind to unfasten the clasp of my bra.

Once she's finish undressing me entirely, she steps back to observe. It's almost as though I can feel her gaze on my skin as it travels the length of my body. Finally, our eyes lock and she looks so serious that I swallow back something stupid that nerves would have said.

"Your equal doesn't even exist," she says, and then she takes everything off until she's just as naked as I am.

I don't have the opportunity to ask for clarification. She's nudging me with her knees, crawling with me up the bed until my head is resting on a pillow that smells just like her shampoo. It feels like we're doing something completely different than what's happened before. Her fingers whispering words against my stomach as they move, skating over a nipple, curving underneath the weight of a breast—this is something new.

"You want me touch you," she says, and I can't distinguish whether or not it's a question until she repeats it, "you want me to touch you? Tell me."

I'm usually not one for talking before or during sex, but her voice was pulling things from me. It was another way of touching, but it wasn't enough.

I wanted to tell her.

"Do you have any idea how wet I am right now?"

She dips a lone finger into where the proof is slowly dripping from me and groans, her eyes closing as she touches my clit in a fleeting, but unbearable moment that leaves me shaking.

"Yes, I have an idea," she says, kissing me softly with a wet finger tracing the nipple that had previously received less attention, "but it's not the same as you telling me."

When I become too distracted to speak, she whispers it into my ear, "Spencer, I'm just as wet as you are."

She grinds her hips onto my thigh, leaving evidence.

"Yes," I groan, approaching my breaking point. I was going to need her soon.

"And I know you can feel it. But I need you to hear me tell you that I want you inside me so badly that it's making me absolutely fucking crazy."

_Very_ soon.

"But…" she says, canting her hips again, "I can't let that happen until you tell me you want me to touch you."

"I _need_ you to touch me. I want you to make me come," I manage, desperate for her to crash into me.

She bows her head for a second, shaking it as though she's in disbelief.

"I want to make you come, Spencer. I want to feel you soaking wet around my fingers."

"Then do it," I say, meeting her eyes.

She smiles at me before sliding two fingers into very little resistance.

Reading both my mind _and_ body this time, she hums against my ear, "You're too wet for just two."

I let out an unnatural sound of pleasure, spreading my legs apart to allow her whatever it is she needs. When she slips a third finger inside, she groans at the sensation before setting a rhythm that has me moving furiously against the palm of her hand. I make a valiant effort to slide my own trembling hand down and press a thumb directly against her clit. She lets out a high-pitched whine, but her fingers don't slow in the least. In fact, they get _more_ precise, hitting exactly where I need them to hit to make me come, at a speed that will have me there in no time at all.

"Are you going to come, Spencer?" she asks, panting against my neck.

"Fuck…_yes_."

"So soon?"

"It's…your fault."

"Good," she says, withdrawing her fingers and sliding down until her mouth was resting against my inner thigh, "I want to taste you."

She immediately starts tapping my clit with her tongue—fast, hard, rhythmic taps that made me feel like I'm losing my entire mind.

She makes sounds of approval as she does it. Sounds that I hear as, "Come in my mouth. _Please_, Spencer, come in my mouth," over and over again until finally, she gets her wish.

My back arches like I'm in the last stages of a possession, hands buried in Ashley's air, hips drumming against her face, noises leaving my mouth without my approval.

When my body finally calmed, I looked to where I could feel her resting against my thigh. Her face reminding me of things I couldn't place.

"Sleep," she says quietly.

"But, you…"

"It's okay."

I wanted to make her feel something. I wanted to feel _her_. But it was as if she called for sleep and it rushed quickly in to accommodate. Before it overtook me completely, I felt her move into the space behind me. Her arms wrapped around my waist.

_Home_.

* * *

When I woke up, the bright red _2:30_ on her clock shocked me. The fact that I slept alone did not.


	13. Committed

_Okay, so this definitely took a lot longer than I had initially intended. But this was more of a writing issue than a life crises issue. We're about to move into "Season 2" or "Part II" of this story. Therefore, wrapping this part up presented all sorts of little writer meltdowns. Not a long chapter, but the next one is guaranteed to be pretty lengthy, as it is the opener to our next step for these two. Thanks for making me feel appreciated, even when I can't always return the favor in exactly the way I'd like to. To each and every single person who reads this thing, you have no idea what it means. Thank you so much. Enjoy!_

**Chapter: Committed**

I sat on the slippery leather seat of the cab, playing with the loose strands of an old sweater I had thrown on in my hurry to escape. It felt like instinct, really—the leaving. Seeing Spencer's shoulders rise and fall with each breath and denying all the wants. I _wanted _to brush her hair away from her face, run my fingers through it and learn it like it was my own. I _wanted_ to kiss the skin uncovered by my thick, down comforter and mark it with the remains of lipstick (hers on top of mine on top of hers on top of mine) and other, more intimate things. I _wanted_ to see her face as it saw mine first thing for the very first time. Or something.

The cab driver had been a choice made out of total desperation. I knew I had to leave, but I knew I couldn't drive. I was too shaken and she hadn't stirred. He was a bad choice, and drove too fast and sighed a lot and made me feel like I was coming down from drugs. It felt a lot like that, actually, as he slammed on the brakes and made the lights that shone through the windows stop and penetrate and then speed past again.

I texted Kat right before I hopped into the backseat and told her to expect me. She had to know that it wasn't going to be good. After all, it was 2 am and I had only typed out a simple and straightforward: I'm coming over now. She had known me long enough. I didn't have to explain and I didn't need the details when she would coax them from me almost immediately upon my arrival anyhow.

"$14.80," he said, coming to an abrupt stop.

I looked out the window, and sure enough…

"Here's a twenty," I replied, handing it to him as I maneuvered my way out of the dirt-specked vehicle, "thanks."

He grunted at me and sped away, leaving me in front of Kat's building. The first thing I noticed were the chimes sounding in the wind. It made me want to cry.

"Hey, Morris."

She looked at me, and I noticed that her eyes looked kinder than they had in years. It felt more like high school, when I made it more apparent how desperately I needed her for answers.

I smiled, "Why the fuck are you out here?"

"Language, ma'am, _language_. This is a decent neighborhood, okay?"

Kat was perched on the steps that led to her apartment, rocking back and forth as she sipped from her favorite mug. The ghost can become an angel at the most necessary of moments.

"Who drinks coffee at this hour?"

"Who runs away from their problems at this hour, Morris? Come inside."

* * *

I followed behind her as she ascended the steps and eventually caught up right as she turned the door handle to the apartment. Once inside, I noticed that she had already brought her extra pillows and blankets out and piled them at the end of the couch like a leaning tower.

I sat down while she refilled her mug—she knew I wouldn't want anything but a glass of water—and checked my phone. I had three text messages from random hook-ups of yesteryear and a missed call from an unknown number. Nothing from Spencer, though I wasn't incredibly surprised.

"What happened?" Kat asked, sitting on the edge of her loveseat and beckoning for her feline companion.

"I slept with Spencer."

She sighed, "Why did you do that?"

"I don't know."

"And why is it a problem?"

"Because now she's going to think that I…"

Kat shook her head, clearly annoyed at where I was going with this, "No, no, no. Don't try that shit with me, Morris. She's going to think what? That you're in love with her or something? Yeah…fuck yeah she is. And you know why she's going to think that…_huh_? Because she's smart and you are. You _are_."

"I am _what_?"

"You _are_ an idiot. You _are_ a scared little kid who never learned when to put her toys away. You _are_ making a mistake in not telling her what she's meant to you…no, what she _means_ to you. You _are_ going to lose this motherfucking, God-given opportunity to give Spencer Carlin the love that you both so desperately need. You _are_ in love with her. Not some dream of who you thought she might be, Ashley. No. You're in love with this version of her—the real her."

"Why are you saying that?" I asked weakly, swallowing the giant lump of honesty in my throat.

"Because I like the way all the pretty words sound together, you fucking piece of shit. Why do you think? Because I love you and I want you to make the right decision for once."

"I can't do this, Kat. I can't. You know me and you know that I hurt people. I leave people. I mean, look! I've already left her! She's in my bed right now—alone—and I'm here with you because I panic."

"I need you to stop pretending that you're some sort of misunderstood, female James Dean character who can't help but leave a trail of hearts behind her. That's not reality. The reality is that you're a person who's scared of admitting that shedding the weight hasn't made you a happier person. You blamed everything on some fucking aesthetic and now you've arrived and you're not happy. How motherfucking depressing is that shit, right? And if that didn't work, now what? Well I'll tell you, Little Davies," she says, suddenly walking towards me and leaning down so that she's directly in front of my face, "I'll tell you. You're about to learn how to enjoy things and love things and cherish things that have nothing to do with sex or abdominal muscles. Are you ready?"

"No."

"I should have expected that from you because you're a little bit stupid. That's okay, though, because I have faith in you. I know you're going to go back home and make this right."

"I am?"

"Yes, idiot, you are."

"Okay," I say, releasing a deep breath. I feel lighter, freed of something I clearly didn't need in order to survive.

"How was the sex?" Kat asks, retaking her seat across from me and swigging some of her coffee.

"It was…it was really incredible, actually."

"Better than the sex from Cancun?"

I replayed each experience in my head, "Yeah, without question."

"What about the aquarium sex?"

"Uh-huh. Yeah, for sure. Not even close."

"This is a big deal then."

She was right. There had never been another quite like Spencer Carlin. Not in theory, not in actuality, not in any way. She was alone in having my entire attention—whether I felt it a punishment or a benefit to her in the end.

"A very big deal. You're right, Kat."

"You better have an 80's movie-worthy monologue ready, because you've got to make her know that you're ready."

"And how do I do that?"

"Seriously?"

"I'm new to this, okay?" I say, kicking her exposed foot with my boot, "I need a little guidance."

"Fine. Step one will be how about you never again kick your best friend if you think it's important to woo a young lass while being actively capable of breathing and with one's limbs attached at the socket."

"That's a really good start."

"I'd say."

"What else you got?"

"You'll sleep here and get your shit together. Text her that you're at my place and apologize for leaving. You'll talk about it in the morning—over coffee and bagels—or beer. Whatever floats your feelings."

"And in the morning?"

"And in the morning you go over there and let her know who you are and how you felt and how you feel now. She might say, 'get the fuck out of this apartment, you fucking psycho.' Or she might say, 'I don't care. Have a good day, though.' Or she might hit you. Personally, I'm hoping there's a part where she hits you," she says, letting out a deep sigh, "but whatever. She might say, 'Ashley, I thought that because you're a creepy slut this would never happen and I like you too. Let's make the babies with our mutual vaginas the best we can. But also, let's get married.' You know, something romantic like that."

"This is why you don't date."

"And the fact that you're asking me in the first place is why _you_ don't date."

"I'll accept that about myself."

She shrugged and yawned. She looked like a little old ghost, tucked into her oversized sweater and reaching for her coffee mug. The apartment suddenly seemed quiet—with the exception of the chimes—and it made me miss Spencer.

I _missed_ her. It felt foreign. Desperate.

"Go to sleep," Kat says, standing up and stretching. She walks her coffee cup over to the sink, running the water as I start preparing the couch.

There are always too many things to thank Kat for. She's _Kat_. But because she is, she already knows.

* * *

I woke up to the sound of birds chirping furiously outside the window, and a cat's sandpaper tongue dancing across my toes. I reach for my cell phone to check the time.

"Shit, shit, shit," I say aloud, throwing my legs over the side of the couch and standing up. There's a loud meow and the rustle of a blanket hitting the ground.

_11:30_.

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe I had slept so late. My dreams had consisted of insane versions of the same situation. There were long conversations with Spencer and admissions of feelings that real-time had buried. She had morphed from hundreds into one and back again until there was just her. She reached for my hand with her head tilted to one side and her eyes hopeful. The light behind her head was bright, its color changing with all of her transformations.

There was no time to waste, so I quickly gathered my shoes and purse, stopping only upon hearing two of the same thing—Kat and her cat.

"Where's coffee?"

"I didn't make coffee, Kat. I have to go. It's late and I have to talk to Spencer before…I don't know. I have to talk to Spencer, though."

"No. Coffee."

"Kat, you're basically sleepwalking right now, okay? And I'm telling you that I have to go."

"Spencer?"

"Yes, Spencer."

"You have to go right now."

"I know. Are you going to be alright?"

"Fuck you. I'm alright."

I laughed, noting her messy locks and t-shirt that reads: Pretty People Deserve Each Other.

"I'll call you afterwards and let you know how it went," I say, grabbing her shoulder and squeezing it.

She nods and walks back down the hall. I can see from this angle that the back of her t-shirt reads: And STDs.

I shake my head before taking a deep breath and closing the front door.

* * *

The second I step inside the apartment, I smell the familiar perfume of a stranger and it strangles me. It signifies danger. The animal inside prepares to either attack or cower. There's always a choice to be made between the two. You can't do both. You can't fear either. You've got to commit.

"You've _got_ to commit," I whisper, just to feel it against my lips. It's water running through aging pipes. It's not easy. But the water still fills the cup, and my mouth still feels the words—even if they taste metallic and strangely, like home.

I whisper it again, but not a third time.

Foreign boots are by the door, and that seals it. She's still inside the apartment. She's an active threat. I keep this in mind as I drag my feet across the floor, hoping to arouse someone's interest. I'd rather be discovered than invade. I would always prefer to be the one doing the surprising.

But after standing still in the kitchen for almost two minutes, I finally give up and say the name that still makes me smile into it like it's the first warm day after a long winter.

"Spencer!"

It's louder than I intend, like I'm saying it for every single time I didn't.

Suddenly, I hear the subtle creaking of her box springs. I anticipate a disappointed face, a sigh. I don't dare to hope for anything more, and I fear something much less. Something that might linger a lot longer.

"Ashley, hey," she says, joining me in the kitchen.

It appears that I have woken her up, and I feel my stomach drop as my imagination got the best of me. Had she slept with her?

"Sorry," I say, shaking my head.

"For what?"

It's a loaded question, certainly. Was I sorry for waking her up? Was I sorry for leaving her alone like she was someone much less important than what she actually was? Was I sorry for not spilling it all upon seeing her face as she rubbed her eyes and smiled slightly?

"I don't know. Waking you up."

"Oh, no problem. You're completely fine. Did you just get back?"

"Uh-huh."

She hesitates for a moment, clearing her throat, "Should I even ask, Ashley?"

She smiles knowingly, and instead of it providing its usual comfort, it made me feel pathetic. She _knew_ I couldn't stay. I hadn't done any of the surprising with her because she had known what I was capable of even before I made it obvious.

"You can."

"I can ask?"

"Yeah, you can ask."

"I don't really want to," she says, rubbing circles into her lower back with both hands, "and anyway, you helped me figure some things out and I appreciate it. I appreciate your friendship."

"Spencer, I don't want…last night was good, you know?" I reply, fumbling for the right words.

"Good how?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, _how_ was it good? You thought the sex was good or what?"

I look at her, and I feel my heart start to constrict. The rest of her face contradicted her eyes, and I knew that this wouldn't work. She had buried last night because she was used to doing it. She was used to burying things that meant something to her.

"The sex was…"I hesitated, deciding whether or not to give her what she needed _from_ me instead offering her the me I wanted to be _for_ her, "I mean, Spencer Carlin, I was impressed. I was surprised."

Her small smile falters, but that's fine. That's what _I'm_ used to, "You were surprised?"

"Yeah, you were fantastic—not that I didn't think you would be, but um…but yeah, you exceeded my expectations."

She laughs and nods at me, "I guess that's quite the compliment coming from you, huh?"

"Indeed it is."

I feel dizzy, and I walk over to the closest barstool so I can balance myself. No sooner had I taken my seat and attempted to reclaim my equilibrium do I see the owner of the boots emerge.

"Hi, Ashley," she says with a smug smile.


	14. Out With the Old

_Okay, so I'm about to ask for something unorthodox, here. I've never had a beta. I've entertained the idea, but it's just never come to fruition. Recently I've been thinking, betas serve multiple purposes. The purpose that interests me presently is that of a writing parent-someone to remind you of your responsibilities and keep you to your curfew and punish you when you disobey with words like "disappointed" and "I expect better from you." I need that. I need a writing parent. So I'm putting it out there. I need a dedicated person to keep me committed to this story. I already know I'm finishing it, but I'd like to get these chapters out in a reasonable, less absurd amount of time. Help me. I'll pay you in...Gatorade._

_Now, I see that people do this, so if you'd like, everyone can do their part by harrassing me on tumblr. electrickazoos (dot) tumblr (dot) commage. Anyway, this chapter will be a relief to some of you, so I hope you enjoy it, and as always-thanks so much for your continued support. Love, love, love you guys._

_Let me know if you want to be my mom._

* * *

**Out With the Old:**

She's never in the apartment it seems. But there are parts of her. I find those parts behind her closed bedroom door or in the kitchen sink or on her side of the bathroom.

The Rolling Stones escaped from underneath her bedroom door on Wednesday morning.

Her water bottle sits—uncapped—in the sink for two days.

She's bought new shampoo. It smells floral—like lavender and something else.

But there's hardly ever an actual Ashley. Her human form has been replaced by these things that form her as a human. It's not the same. These things don't smile like Ashley smiles. They don't make me coffee in the morning. They don't remember to open the windows in the living room. These things aren't Ashley.

It's been at least five days since the last time I really saw her. It begins to feel like I'm living with an abnormally gigantic member of the Borrowers.

Kat says through text message replies that she's fine—that she's sleeping and eating and breathing and she's fine. She's _fine_, I guess.

Five days ago she was standing across from me wearing a shit-eating grin when Jonica walked in on us and—as usual—made her presence known almost immediately. It shifted the air, made it thick with tension. Ashley's smile disappeared, only to return a second later with much less sincerity.

"_Hi, Jonica," she says, crossing her arms._

"_Hi, Herpes."_

"_Jon, seriously…" I whine, because it's way too early for her personality disorder. I'm tired. My head hurts from all the tiny impacts of all my tiny thoughts running around and bumping into the walls._

"_No, it's fine. Don't even worry about it," Ashley says, shrugging and shaking her head, "I'll entertain the troll's desperate attempts at fourth grade-seduction. Let's face it, I prefer her to Robin at this point."_

_I sighed, preparing myself to speak. But of course, I didn't have to time to say actual words before they were coming from someone else. I felt like the ventriloquist of a rather possessed (or perhaps, possessive) dummy in an act that had been getting old for a very long time._

"_Robin made a mistake, okay? But she and Spencer are having lunch together and by the end of it," Jonica pauses, smiling at me like a parent, "they're going to figure out how to move on—together. You wouldn't know about that, Ashley. You wouldn't know about trying."_

"_Actually, yeah. I know all about trying. For instance, I'm trying not to punch you in your face right now. I'm trying not to ask personal questions about your living at the North Pole. I'm trying to understand why you're here right now."_

"_I'm here because Spencer needed me last night. She was upset about Robin and she needed to talk about it."_

_Ashley looks at me with a dark eyebrow raised, knowing and yet, confused. I didn't know why I hadn't told Jonica the truth, other than the obvious reasons. I didn't want to admit that I, too, had eaten the forbidden fruit of a tempting tree. When she had told me (as the tea kettle began its insistent whistling and strips of reflected sunlight formed the silhouettes of morning across the hardwood floors) that everything would be fine, I didn't want her to believe that we both could have needed the same thing simply because we had needed the same person. _

_I explained as best I could._

"_We're having lunch and I'm going to try to figure some things out. That's all."_

"_What do you need to figure out?" she asks quietly, eyes darting quickly between my own and her feet._

"_Just…the how and the why, I guess. I don't know."_

"_The 'how' is because she's an idiot and the 'why' is because she's an idiot. Are you good now? Do you get it? Because the last time I saw you, Spencer, you got it. It hasn't been so long, has it?"_

_I laugh, "It's a little more complicated than that, Ash."_

"_It's really not. She's dumb. She doesn't deserve you if she doesn't know that she doesn't deserve you."_

_I reach out, squeeze her shoulder twice in thanks. She laughs humorlessly and shifts closer to the counter. _

"_Yeah, no one's taking advice from you," Jonica says, her laugh sounding even more smug as it follows closely behind Ashley's, "that would be like asking Lindsay Lohan how to manage an acting career—doesn't make sense, does it?"_

"_Everyone deserves a second chance," I say quietly._

_She looks at me._

"_I don't want you to get hurt."_

_I start to respond, the sentences forming traffic on the tip of my tongue. I notice that she's completely disarmed, uncharacteristically postured in a shape that I've never seen her in, with feet turned inward and chin angled towards her chest. And yet, she's nervous. Her fingers are drumming insane rhythms on the surface of the countertop. It's such a contradiction and I lose myself in it like a puzzle. Jonica uses my silence as an opportunity—as usual._

"_I hope you know that words like that don't even sound believable coming from your mouth."_

"_Okay," Ashley says, looking around the apartment almost frantically, "I'm going to jump in the shower. I have a class at 3."_

"_God, I feel sorry for whoever you fucked last night," Jonica murmurs before turning on her heels and walking out of the kitchen and down the hall to my bedroom. _

_Ashley watches her and nods, and I wait for her eyes to meet mine. They never do._

* * *

On Friday evening, there's a knock on the door. I'm sitting at the kitchen table, stacks of papers surrounding my laptop. I'm grateful for the knock, jumping out of my chair with an urgency that surprises even me.

When I swing it open, I'm face-to-face with the neighbor from the unit under ours.

I've met him a couple times before, but I can't really remember the circumstances.

"Hey," I say, forcing a smile. I imagine he's here to complain about something—a leak from the bathroom that's directly over his bed or my loud, disappointed footsteps at odd hours of the night as I check to see if Ashley's home.

"Hey, what's up? It's been awhile."

"It has, hasn't it? How are you?"

"I'm good. I've been out of town for the last couple of weeks, actually."

"Anywhere exciting?" I ask simply to be polite.

"Um…not really. I'm from Toronto and I just went back up there to see my family. Nothing too exciting or exotic or anything. Sorry to disappoint."

"Family can be nice."

"Yeah, well…anyway," he says, shuffling his feet, "I got back this morning and I realized that I had gotten some of your mail again. I don't know when it's from, so I'm sorry if it's anything you needed."

He hands me a couple envelopes and a small shipping box. I wonder why I didn't notice him holding it until I realize just how distracted I've been this week.

"I'm sure it's just a letter informing me that I won the lottery and I had to collect the million dollars within 24 hours. Probably arrived last week and has just been sitting in your mailbox."

He looks at me blankly, "Really?"

"No, I'm kidding. I'm sure it's nothing urgent. Thanks, though."

"I get it now," he says with a reserved smile, "I hope you have a good rest of your evening, Spencer."

"You too," I reply, forgoing an attempt to recall his name.

Once I'm alone again, I sigh into the lonely apartment and discard the envelopes somewhere on the kitchen table. I sit down to open the box, my index finger slipping easily underneath the shipping tape. As soon as the cardboard sides fold back and I can see inside, I smile for the first time in several days.

Wrapped in bubble wrap by my strange grandparents like it's fine china instead of a bit of both welcome and unwelcome nostalgia is my high school yearbook. I run my fingers over the raised lettering of the cover, leaving the dark film of dirt and dust on the tips.

"Yes," I say aloud as I feel the weight of the book on my lap, heavy with lost things.

Turning the pages randomly, I land on a picture of an old friend—Aiden Dennison—dressed in an ill-fitting cheerleader's uniform and smiling like it's the best thing he can imagine. There are more pictures of friends from the past—Chelsea and Sean and Madison. I want to ask Ashley if she remembers any of them, but instead I'm the one who is forced to remember yet again that she's not around.

_Ashley_.

I flip quickly through, all the way to the student index and find that she's only on one page—page 57. I grin with excitement as I locate it quickly and my eyes dart across the small pictures of underclassmen. Strangely, I don't find her by face alone and instead I look through the list of "Ds" in alphabetical order and to the right of "Davies."

_But_…

"No way," I whisper in shock, blinking my eyes.

_No_…

Certainly it was her, though my first thought was to dismiss it as a mistake. There, wearing several extra pounds, an unflattering haircut, and a sad smile is this former Ashley. Her eyes gave her away. And very suddenly, something made sense. Something about the practiced charm and the insistent swagger and the obvious discomfort with an image she only aided in reinforcing made sense.

"Overcompensation, thy name is Ashley Davies," I say to the furniture.

I attempt to recover from the shock by continuing my walk down memory lane. I find myself on several pages, and it concerns me that I can no longer tell if my smiles are real or the perceived fun was actually felt in these moments that are now frozen. I only know that I look younger and I'm surrounded by people instead of work. I find Kat by accident in a group picture of the "Library Aides," and laugh at how some things haven't changed at all.

I'm surprised at how quickly I tire of reliving it. High school is one of those rare things in life that is never truly far away enough to render completely pure feelings. But before sliding it on a bookshelf and forgetting all over again, I read through all the large, bubbly handwriting of girls from my former cheerleading squad as they promised "friendship forever" and the messy scrawls of guys who had worked up the nerve to hit on me despite my often proclaimed preference for girls. I almost stop right there, sighing at all my unresolved frustration towards high school boys.

But then I spot it. The familiar, memorized words jump out at me like splashing water.

_There's not a single room I've ever been in that wouldn't have benefitted from your presence inside it. Not one._

I take the yearbook over to the couch. In retrospect, I suppose I realized intuitively that something would change. I would read it and something would be remarkably different. If it's ever within my power, I like to be at my most comfortable when things change. It's a luxury to prepare.

_Spencer,_

_There's not a single room I've ever been in that wouldn't have benefitted from your presence inside it. Not one. _

_When you're not around I still save you a chair. I did it all the time when you were gone this year. I don't know how else to tell you. I think that maybe if I gave you the entire truth, if I said everything, then you wouldn't believe me. You would think that it's impossible because I don't actually know you. Or rather, you don't actually know me. But hopefully you believe me when I tell you that you're the only person I look forward to. Seeing you makes me okay. It's weird because it shouldn't be that way. It definitely shouldn't be okay, because I see you and I can't talk and I can't breathe and I can't move, and really, I can't do anything but look at you not noticing it. I never know if I want you to notice or if I don't. Maybe this is me finally deciding that I want you to, even though you probably won't because I waited too long to make the decision._

_I don't have much to lose here, I guess. You're graduating, so I can tell you without much hesitation that you're absolutely the best that God can do. Everything before you was so the world would know to appreciate you and everything after was out of his (or her) own boredom. You're so beautiful that I don't even miss being able to breathe. I think that maybe you're my practice in wanting something. I don't actually know why else I would have to feel this way and live with it for so long. Sometimes it's really, really hard. I want to walk up to you in the hallway and tell you that I'm drowning in all this constant thinking about you. It takes up so much space—so much so that I don't have much room for myself. But trust me, I get that I'm not good enough for you. You're one of those people who deserves one of those people, and that's not me. _

_I saw your eyes and your smiles change after what happened to your family. I hope you don't mind that I'm bringing that up, but I thought you should know that I noticed in case you thought no one was paying attention. And that's why I know how hard you try now. I know that you want to make everyone else feel better about being around you. It's hard to watch you have to convince people that it's okay that they're ready to go back to normal even though you can't. In fact, if I could work up the nerve to talk to you, that's what I would tell you. I would tell you that because I don't really know what normal is, I don't mind staying outside of it with you for as long as you need. _

_At first I thought I felt this way because I looked up to you or admired you or something. It was a really big deal when you started dating girls. Not just to me, but to everyone. I thought that I wanted to be brave like that, and I do. I really do, trust me. But it's not about liking girls. Even if I didn't like girls, I think I'd still like you. I can't imagine that anyone wouldn't. I don't know what else there is to like or want other than you. You've always been it. Maybe everyone has an "it." Maybe you have one too._

_So yeah, it's not just because you like girls—even though I'm happy you do. I don't know why that makes me happy. It's not like that somehow makes you like __**me**__. But I like thinking that if I can't touch you, the people who are allowed to do it have soft hands and they smell good and they taste like lip gloss or something sweet and they're not doing it just to brag to someone else about it. I don't know why I just wrote that. I just re-read it and it sounds stupid in my head and it probably will in yours too. That's exactly why I wish I could write this in pencil, but then it would smudge or something. _

_Anyway, I'm glad you like girls. You helped me figure out that I do too. But not after you came out. I knew I liked girls when I saw you the very first time and it was like believing in Santa Claus all over again. It never went away. I kept waiting for it to go away and it hasn't yet. I've asked my friend if that's normal and she said she wouldn't know because she doesn't like anyone and she never has and she probably never will. Mostly, I just feel like I found you by accident. I feel like I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wasn't supposed to know that you even existed, because it's kind of not fair to want you the way that I do and know how much it'll never happen because I'm such a loser and you're so…you. I think maybe I was supposed to be someone else. Someone that you would look at. But I'm not._

_This is getting really long, so I guess I'll finish up. I just want to say that I know you'll do great wherever it is that you go. I heard you tell someone in the hallway that you got into Berkeley. So, good luck there even though you won't need it. I know from having Health class with you that you're really, really smart. I hope you make friends who don't make you feel like you have to be someone you used to be when the new you is just as perfect as the old one was. I like the way the new one looks serious sometimes. You look like you understand something you didn't understand before, and I guess I don't see that as a bad thing even though I know it's hard to know something that other people don't know yet. That's how I feel about you. I know that I probably freaked you out with all this, but honestly, I'm just someone who thinks you're beautiful and smart and has always felt like you were special even when I didn't know why. If you believe that, then it's enough for me and it's worth it that I'm sitting here writing this to you with my hands shaking like crazy and my heart beating like it's in our awful marching band. _

_Love,_

_Ashley D_

_p.s. Everything else._

My mouth had gone dry from being ajar for so long. I licked my lips and stared at the words—written in her familiar handwriting that I had seen on Post-It notes and to-do lists all around the apartmet—until they started blurring together. A few seconds later, I found myself walking over to the kitchen table and grabbing my phone. I found the name in a haze and called before I had the opportunity to register why or if I should or what I expected. All I could comprehend was the need to talk to someone who knew something. I needed the friend who had supposedly never liked anyone. The one who, perhaps, never would.

* * *

An hour later, she sat before me with a large travel mug of coffee.

"Did you know?" I ask quietly, unsure of what could come from her and what should come directly from the horse's mouth. The problem being that the horse was hard to find these days.

"I knew, yeah," Kat says, eyeing me over the lid of her cup, "but it was hers to tell."

"Yeah, I know. I know. I wouldn't have expected you to tell me, obviously."

"What does it even change, really?"

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. It was high school, Spencer. If people held me accountable for the way I felt in high school, I would still be apologizing for wishing premature baldness on the entire student body."

"Okay, I get that. But we've slept together, Kat."

"Ashley has slept with at least 78% of the American people."

I sighed, burying my face in my hands. Maybe Kat was the wrong person to call. I needed a friend, but my only other option was Jonica—which could never happen.

"Spencer, look," Kat says, her tone a little less apathetic than it was a moment ago, "you really just need to talk to her, alright? I mean…"

"Have you read it? No, do you actually _know_ what it says? Did she tell you?"

"I have an idea."

"It's _a lot_. I had forgotten, you know? To be honest, I don't even think I read it all at the time. I think I got through the first couple of sentences and told myself I'd finish it later when I was by myself and never did."

"Maybe that was better."

"I don't think so, Kat. I wish I had read it."

She shrugs, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable, "It wouldn't have made a difference. She was a stranger and you were leaving."

I nodded, knowing she was right.

We sat in silence for several minutes, Kat sipping her coffee and staring out at the street lights as they flickered for attention and me, desperately fighting to make myself remember Ashley as she was then.

"What happened?" I asked, needing an answer to the other, less fragile piece, "when did she become this Ashley?"

She nodded, taking a moment to respond as though she had to really think about it.

"It's hard to say. Somewhere between high school and now she got it in her head that she was going to become some sort of lesbian sex superhero and that's what she did. She was tired of not being noticed. Now, she's more than noticed. She's anticipated."

"Is it wrong that I think that's incredibly sad?"

"Well, you fucked the new one and you didn't even see the old one, so I guess it worked, yes?"

I felt my back push into the couch cushion as though I had been slapped. When I tried to respond, it came out as a high-pitched hum.

"Sorry," she said, sitting her cup on the table and leaning towards me, "I actually am. I didn't mean to say that. I'm used to being protective of the old Ashley. She really needed me."

"I'm sure she needs you now, Kat. I know she does."

She waves my words away with her hand, "Of course, but it's different. Now she needs me to remind her of who she _was_ and then…then, she needed me to remind her of who she could be. Even though, you know, I don't think I realized that until just now."

"Where is she?"

She shrugged, but her face looked mildly sympathetic, "Out."

"I need to talk to her."

"I agree."

"Then help me."

"I'll see what I can do," Kat says, reaching for her phone, "oh, and um…sorry about wishing you'd be bald by 24. Your hair looks pretty still on your head like that."

I laughed as she dialed and hit the speaker button, placing the phone on the table between us. We stared at our hands as we waited for Ashley to answer. When she finally did, my head shot up and I found Kat's eyes immediately.

"What's up?" Ashley asked, her voice muted and nearly consumed by background noise.

Kat looked at me, then at the ceiling and back at me as though she was searching for the right thing to say, "Ashley, there's been…I'm pregnant and I'm at your apartment."

My jaw dropped.

"What are you talking about, Kat?" Ashley asked, equally horrified.

"I'm pregnant and we need to talk about…babies and what people do with babies when the babies are in them and then when the babies are out of them and then when the babies aren't babies anymore. Whatever. I'm pregnant as fuck and I need your help."

"You're pregnant?" Ashley yells, and judging from the sudden clarity in the call, she's stepped away from the commotion.

"Yeah, I got a fucking precious bundle of baby in me, so I pretty much need to figure some shit out. It's about to get real up in my uterus."

"Why are you at my apartment?"

"Um…I thought you'd be here and now I'm too upset to go home by myself."

I nodded at her and she gave me the most hesitant thumbs-up the world's ever known.

"Okay, well don't move, okay? Is Spencer there?"

"Yeah, she let me in."

"Good," Ashley says, and I hear the jingling of her keys through the receiver, "I'll be right there."


	15. Sidekicks

_**Alright, I know it's been awhile. In my defense, this was a really hard chapter to write. I've tried three different versions and this is the one I felt even HALFWAY okay about. The developments seem a little unexplainable from this perspective, but of course dots will be connected when the main two are back to telling the story. Other than that, you guys have been so incredibly wonderful. I've gotten so many incredible messages and reviews-even on tumblr. And I've got to tell you, every time I read one that was particularly inspiring, I would pull up this story's file and write. So yeah, your words do help. I'm so, so honored. Other than that, I'm feeling like with this chapter, it might actually be time to wrap things up. I know I said it would have three parts, but it's making more sense to me as it's developing now. I don't know. We'll see, and of course, you'll be warned. Thanks again!**_

**Sidekicks:**

I don't like to involve myself in the lives of…well, I don't like to involve myself at all, really. I prefer to become the wallpaper. I close in, blend in, exist in. I match the furniture. But I never unglue myself, never unfurl, never begin to interact with the rug, the coffee table, the telephone. This has never been my way.

I am present merely as a compliment to your own dumb decisions.

But that isn't true, is it? That's not true at all. Because if it were true, I wouldn't be sitting beside Spencer Carlin, drinking the room temperature water she offered me as I wait for my best friend to run in and expose me as the desperate liar I truly am.

Yet, this is _their _design! If I am floral, or polka dot, or paisley, it is because they have made me this way.

I am meant to be a sidekick. I'm good at it. I say clever things and I speak the truth. Sometimes I'm promiscuous with men you never see. Occasionally I have too much to drink and admit that I used to be a little jealous of you in college. Most times I am the humanized well of subtle wisdom.

My kind has been the comic relief of every awkward situation since the beginning of time—though we admittedly had our heyday in the '80s (and here and there in biblical times). We're necessary, mildly attractive, never taller than our best friends, never interested in improving the quality of our own mysterious lives.

I am the Kathryn Hahn, and you have no idea who that is. That's okay because you're not _supposed_ to know. Use your smart phone and do a quick search. Make sure you spell "Kathryn" correctly. Okay, you see her? You know her now, right? Of course you do. She takes baths in her sidekick millions and her various childhood insecurities and complexes. She is our fearless leader.

So you see, I'm not supposed to be buried six feet deep in sexy, romantic dog shit and lies with Ashley and Spencer. I am supposed to be on the outskirts with binoculars and a bullhorn attempting to warn them about said dog shit. But Ashley has forgotten her lines again and though Spencer has been the queen of improv for years, she is no help. Mostly because she only recently found out she is actually onstage at all—though she's been under heavy lighting ever since Ashley first saw her.

I've somehow managed to tell Ashley that I'm pregnant (cue the lighthearted pop music) as a means of helping her reconnect with the true love of her life. How selfless of me. How noble. If Kathryn Hahn knew, she would tip her slightly-worn Yankees cap to me and give me an adorable shrug before running off to tend to the every need of Kate Hudson. But she's not here—Spencer is. She's looking fearfully back and forth between me and the door like we're in the most apathetic horror movie ever.

"Yes, Spencer?"

"Oh, sorry. It's nothing. Just nerves," she says quickly, waving them off with her hand.

"Don't be nervous. She's a small human female, not a natural disaster—though admittedly, the similarities are endless."

She laughs, "You're so funny, Kat."

"It's my job."

"Well, you're very good at your job I'll have you know."

"Spencer, may I ask you an important question?"

"Of course."

"Do you know who Kathryn Hahn is?"

She frowns a little, resting her chin on her fist as she racks her brain for a point of reference.

"Um…wasn't she on 'The Office' or something?"

"No."

"Then no, I don't think so. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

"I can look her up, do a Google search or something."

"No need."

She smiles at me, but then she sighs and the sound contradicts everything that she's attempting. It alerts me to other things. Her foot is tapping worriedly against the floor, her fingers pull at the loose fibers of the couch.

"What will you say?" I ask, taking a sip of water, "have you thought about what's next?"

"I mean…things are so weird between us. It's not like this is the most complex piece. Yeah, it doesn't exactly make things any less weird, but we slept together. Where does that fit in here?"

"I guess I—"

"No, really, Kat. This is Ashley we're talking about. She's not going to want to do this. She's not going to want to have a conversation about what this means to our relationship."

"What do you think it means to your relationship?"

"I think it means we need to talk about what we want."

I didn't have time to respond because the front door was being thrown open with unnecessary force and a red-faced Ashley Davies was suddenly in my line of sight.

"Hey, sorry I took so long. There was a lot of traffic downtown," she says, unwrapping the scarf from around her neck in a dizzying circular motion, "are you okay?"

I imagine the question was directed at me, but her eyes were on Spencer.

I stand up, clearing my throat and preparing for the speech I had practiced in my head during those three minutes spent in their product-ridden bathroom, "Ash, before you say lovely and supportive shit that you'll live to regret, I must confess something."

She sighs deeply, "Kat, is this really the right time for one of your monologues?"

"Ashley, I'm going to need you to take a pregnant pause, get it? Alright?"

She sighs again, but nods.

"Thank you. Now where was I? Oh, yes," I clear my throat again, "while I'm sure all of my lady parts are solidly ready to be used much like the narrow end of a mustard bottle for the transport of a baby mutant child, it is simply not time. Right now I prefer to use them for meaningless, mediocre sex acts with strangers I meet on various forms of public transit and for monthly tampon retrieval. That's it."

"Wait, _what_?"

"My vagina—or as I like to call it, the _cockpit_—will not be used as a slip n' slide for an infant baby child anytime in the near future."

"The cockpit?"

"What I'm saying here, my friend, is that while I may often be knocked down, I am not presently knocked up."

Spencer shakes her head as if to confirm my announcement. She's standing up as well, rocking backward and forward on the balls of her feet.

"You're not pregnant?" Ashley asks, still glancing at Spencer.

I shake my head, reaching down to take another sip of water.

"Why would you tell me that, Kat? Why would you lie?"

"Who does anyone lie? Why do sleeping dogs lie? I needed something."

"And what did you need exactly?" she asks, her signature angry smirk darkening her features further.

"I may not be pregnant, but I'm still surrounded by babies," I reply, pointing at both she and Spencer.

"Wait, how am _I_ a baby?" Spencer asks, looking at me as though she's been betrayed.

"You two need to get this shit together. Seriously. Granted, Ashley, you are a much larger baby than your roommate but you're both being ridiculous. Use your big girl words and figure this out. I'm not kidding. I didn't ask to be placed in the middle of this, but if I've got my first-born sleeping on my couch some nights so she can avoid my second-born who's called me over today…yeah, I can't help that shit. I'm five seconds away from calling Brad and Angelina to come get you kids."

"Oh, please. Like you don't enjoy all the juicy tidbits," Ashley says, throwing her bag on the floor before perching herself on the armrest of the couch, "if you don't want to admit it yet, that's fine."

"Feeling my neck hairs raise as you slowly rake over the scandalous details of your dramatic existence is wonderful. Let me be 100% clear about that—I _love_ it. But I don't love having to lie about my womb in order to help you both."

"Sorry, Kat," Spencer says quietly.

It's slightly heartbreaking and she looks so goddamn sad that for a minute I consider shutting my mouth. However, there's no need. She does it for me.

"If it's okay with you, I'm going to ask you for one more thing," she says, looking at me, "will you just stay while we talk about this? You don't have to say anything. You don't have to do anything. I just want to know that someone is here to stop her from running."

Ashley sighs, shaking her head.

"If you will fill my cup with more of your precious tap water, I will go and sit at the kitchen table and read my book while you two mud wrestle."

She smiles and grabs my cup, "Okay."

With Spencer's back turned to retrieve the water, Ashley uses the opportunity to glare at me from where she's seated.

"This is ridiculous, Kat. Absolutely ridiculous and you know it. You _know_ it," she hisses.

I simply point at the coffee table, wanting to avoid her accusations as quickly as possible. Her gaze follows my finger to where the yearbook sits, mocking her like a forgotten enemy.

It does the trick. Her eyes widen and her jaw hangs slack as her brain begins to process what this means. When she finally looks up, I can recognize the fearful expression. Despite its evolution over the years, it remains much the same from the first moment we met.

"Yeah…" I whisper, pulling my current choice of novels out of my oversized messenger bag, "so it's time, okay? This is it."

She doesn't say anything. She looks at Spencer's back as she makes good on our deal and fills my glass. Her eyes travel her length and width. They're either reliving something undesirable or they're accepting something undesirable. It's hard to tell from where I'm sitting.

"Alright, Kat," Spencer says, crossing the room to hand me my water, "here you go. And um…yeah, thanks for staying."

"Of course."

I quickly move to the kitchen table, wanting their conversation to happen ten years ago or at the very least, as soon as it possibly can. I choose the seat that faces them and plop my book down. It's indulgent, I know. But I had been waiting for the impact of this for as long as anyone else. I don't walk out of movies as soon as the main character realizes that he or she is actually a superhero and I have no plans to throw my novel out as soon as it reaches its climax. However, I have been known to throw men out before they reach theirs. There are always exceptions.

"I got the yearbook finally," Spencer says quietly, pointing to it just as I had.

"Yeah, I see that."

"I also…I found what you wrote."

"It was a lot," Ashley says, finally meeting Spencer's eyes.

"It was, yeah."

"So I guess you want some sort of explanation or something, right?"

"I mean, I guess I want to know why you—"

"I had a crush. It was innocent and I was a teenager. I was deep in the closet and you were out and older and you know…you were crush-worthy. And I was…I wasn't myself then, you know?"

I bite my tongue. It's not my turn.

"I was crush-worthy," Spencer repeats with a smile, "it's nice to know that my glory days have passed, huh? I _was_ crush-worthy."

What she fails to know is that Ashley isn't ready to smile about this. She's not ready to believe the words she's saying. So she doesn't. She doesn't smile. Her shoulders drop like a child learning embarrassment for the very first time. Only, this isn't anywhere near her first time, she's nowhere near her childhood, and the emotions that have been validated and discarded are crawling up from the dirt like mummies.

"I really needed something then. I needed a goal. I needed something to go to school for. I needed someone who represented what I could have if I was willing to change."

"And look at that, Ash. You had me," Spencer answers with a surprising amount of bitterness, "was I everything you hoped I would be? Can you check me off as a goal completed?"

Past had met present.

"It's not like that at all."

"That's why you moved in here, right? You moved in so you could make me believe that you're a decent human being before you slept with me. Mission accomplished and now I have to worry that you've been strangled to death by some other girl you've fucked over because you never come home."

"Spencer…"

"You selfish bitch," the blonde spits, her arms crossed so tight across her chest that it almost concerns me more than the direction of her words, "you're so obsessed with making sure no one expects anything from you that you never even stop to think about what your absence means. Do you get that I've been by myself, Ashley? Do you get that _I've been by my fucking self_?"

Ashley shakes her head, tears threatening to fall, "Spencer, I—"

"I _was_ crush-worthy. Now that's your title, I guess. That's what it is. Girls think you're crush-worthy. I want you to know something, okay? It means nothing."

"I know that."

"_You're_ crush-worthy and _I'm_ just worthy of being crushed."

Spencer laughs loudly—manically.

I expect those insistent tears to collapse. I expect Ashley to acknowledge and repent. Instead, she chooses to engage in the present as well. Her timing is impeccable.

"You still want Robin! What do you want me to do?"

"_What_?"

"You're not even over her, but I'm supposed to swoop in and overlook that. No, no I couldn't. I can't," Ashley says, staring out the closed window.

"You know that's not true."

"You haven't said anything, Spencer! You've said nothing. I don't even know where this is coming from."

"Because we can't work. I need someone who values consistency. I need someone who's here when I wake up. I don't want to wake up to emptiness anymore."

"I've been trying to give us space so we can figure this shit out."

"No, you're giving yourself space because you don't want to figure this shit out."

Ashley sighs loudly. It echoes off the walls as Spencer collapses onto the couch. I consider making a joke, lightening the mood a bit. But so much has been said that there's nothing to add. I can only subtract or add zero. I've made Spencer a promise to stay so zero it is.

"Tell me you want to try."

Ashley and I both whip our heads towards her voice. She looks defeated, but hopeful that she can still recover something from the rubble that surrounds their warzone.

"Try?"

"Yes, tell me you want to try and make this work. I don't care about ten years ago and you shouldn't either. I wouldn't even care about yesterday if you would just look at me and tell me that you've got the balls to be with me. I don't want to be your ten years ago anymore. I want to be your now—maybe even your ten years from now, I don't know. But I want to try."

Ashley hesitates, shuffles around on the edge of the couch. For a second she appears to smile and shake her head, but my vision isn't exactly what it was ten years ago. Things change.

"Think about it, Ash," Spencer says, standing suddenly, "if I wake up alone tomorrow, then okay. I get it. Your stripes have to change pretty drastically, I know. But you've done it once, so…"

She nods once at me before walking down the hallway towards her room. Her footsteps echo even louder than Ashley's sigh. When her door clicks shut, I feel that I'm being watched.

"What?" I ask, closing the book that I had never begun to read.

"I can do this, right? I mean, I want to, Kat. I won't hurt her, _right_?"

"It's not my job to answer that."

"Fine, okay. Then tell me, what would you do?"

I considered it. As the resident sidekick, I wasn't used to such inquiries. After all, you don't drive from the passenger's seat. The dog doesn't toss the Frisbee. The spoon doesn't eat the soup. But Kathryn Hahn has offered enough advice in the last twenty-two minutes of movies over the years—advice that you know her character longed to have relevant in her own less important life.

"I would do it, Ashley. I would go for it."


End file.
